my stomach is always eating itself
I am feverish, dreaming always
of masking myself finally
plastic face over my own
angry face
hard edges over my own
wilting edges

do I really believe I can be loved?
am I committed to my own survival?

even the half-moon tastes salty
as I rush through biting air
in fear,
wanting only

to be home
to undo these knots
I have tied around my ribs
and esophagus,
to forget

the way hope sits
behind my lungs
a crow perched perfectly
between body and desire