I am going to be. Here,
in a sticky womb,
a living room made for
madness; a sautéed fanciness.
The feast is being set,
just above the chandelier,
they call me by number,
my tattooed slumber calls.
White isn’t always padded
or strapped. Most likely
it only surrounds
the dark blue ring
around the sunburst I look at.
I think I am a painting.
Rembrandt is too gross, but
Picasso, he is enough mystery
to create me.
Half of me sprawls across the cold,
I wait for night-watch to
twist me back to form.
The other girl squats in the corner.
I smell feces and antifreeze.
Do I dream? Can I dissect the fumes of
the dead?
Her charred body crawls toward me,
she removes her teeth.
Everything glitters like a shadow.
Then, I am here. In the morning.
It isn’t the sun that tells me,
but the number, tattooed to
my skull.
Doctor, tell me, has Picasso gone home?
maggiemaeijustsaythis 