Untitled

I feel like I could clamp down on my own teeth—

let them splinter and fracture,

crack into jagged enamel shards

I’d dig out of my gums one by one—

each tug sending a shiver through my skull,

each root leaving a soft, wet ache,

and it wouldn't be enough.

My hand could drift upward,

fingers weaving into my hair like ivy

and yank, again and again,

until the scalp numbs

beneath the pressure,

until I gather strands like bristles—

twisting them between trembling fingers

before discarding them like petals,

only to reach again.

And it wouldn't be enough

I could scream until my throat splits,

until hoarseness rakes through every vowel

and blood sluggishly slides down like a dying river

dragging itself through a crooked bed.

And it wouldn't be enough.

I could do all of these things.

And still—

it wouldn’t be enough

to hush my mind

for even a flicker of a second.