The rose is a wash basin
I bend and drain the colors of washed daylight
Soft prickles, gristly porcupine scales, fingers escaping fingers

The pipeline likes to revolve, 
its convoluted sense of being stemming from my perforated smile
I hereby hold, the collective layers of body
and rob it of its molecular pride

Gooseflesh, bathing in general shades of scorpion eyes
I reflect, reflect, refract and scatter
shadows in milk and milk in flight 
Watch the mirrors begin, dissolve into a soaked resolution 
Suck the glass chips, stuff them into sparkling teeth
I am your split, I am my split

The rose is a void
and I am falling out
Unreeling this fractured sense of demise

Image and words © Aakriti Kuntal
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9 thoughts on “Cuts and Ribbons

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