Hallelujah for viscosity (amen to that).
A toast to the ambiguity of states of matter
and to the bubbles that manage to stay still
even when the door slams.
This is a celebration of your foremothers
and their menstrual blood.
This is relationship anarchy, and just plain
anarchy. And paper cuts.
You got them on a manifesto,
reading by moonlight since it’s almost full
and it wasn’t too cloudy.
There’s no point trusting soap dispensers,
everything is sticky and
the little drop of blood is creeping toward the couch.
You can’t stop watching it,
seems like an empty gas tank
or a muddy highway.
But it’s just blood, just flesh,
just something you remember even though
you weren’t there to begin with and
you’re already writing verses in your head and
can’t seem to stop thinking about
that scissors shaped scar
and the stinging hand sanitizer
on the other side of your ring finger.