You say show me your kind of sick
so I crack open my ribcage like
a walnut and smooth away the skin,
pull out my stomach, knife it,
twist it inside out. Inside,
a hornet’s nest: a mass of writhing wings
and yellow-black jackets.
Buzz. Sting.
You say I don’t understand
so I fold my guts back into my torso
and stitch it together.
In one piece, I rattle. Moonrock lungs,
knuckles like loose spoons, I am
all slack ends and hard spine.
I go weeks without talking to anyone
but my walls, make conversation
with the wallpaper. Hello, how are you?
—Just fine, thank you. Yourself?
I’m spinning sugar between my teeth.
You ask me to count my cavities
so I write letters to my insides, but
when it comes time to read aloud, I forget
how to speak the language that simmers.
Boil. Spark. Shiver.
Instead I light a match and swallow it.
Breathe acid fire.
Scorch. Sizzle.
I am trembling, full of light.
You pass me a glass of water, suggest
calling my therapist. This is how
it goes: we’re sitting across the table
from each other and my hands
are bloodied. There is no way for me
to make you understand my kind
of suffering, a black decay with
fingers scraping my ribs. Cloying.
Crackle. Consume.
Martina Dominique Dansereau is a disabled, non-binary lesbian writer and artist whose works centre on trauma, marginalisation, and love, particularly as they intersect with gender, disability, mental illness, and LGBT issues. When not entrenched in academia or creating art, xe enjoys reading books with xyr snakes, who often fall asleep between the pages. You can find xem on Twitter and Instagram @herpetologics.
–Art by Menerva Tau