sometimes i have dreams where i eat myself for the warmth

the skin’s a little dry, fluid-drained by trauma’s mallet,
but it still has a lot to offer. bruises bloom in the mouth
like blueberries fresh off the bush, little bursts
of a pulse i didn’t know i still had.

i know you’re watching me from the window,
so i keep licking my tibia clean-- an artist driven
to self-righteous madness in old age,
making bad art just to stay relevant.

in my head, the vision of me gazing up, bloodied lips
parted in a strawberry-jam smile, sinew hanging from
my front tooth gap, will send you running, ripping
the screen door from its hinges. it’s you:
my familiar degenerate, my little dog in heat
who just needed a reminder of what i’m capable of.

instead you glare at me, so disappointed in my selfishness,
leaving me out in the rain for a timeout, double-bolting
the door behind you. i whimper all night long, cleaning
my sorry wounds. when i paw at the screen door, howling,
you just pull the pillow over your ears.

you don’t want to sleep next to such a dirty thing,
but that’s unfair. we all have needs; some are just more
despicable. i don’t like the graduate and i’m not watching
it anymore, even to make you smile. sacrifice is a curse.
i’m young and dead from the waist down.

sometimes i want to roll up like a pill bug and lay waiting
to be unraveled, just because i have the time to waste,
just because what’s more important than knowing
someone can’t stand to not touch you?

be quiet, watch; the twin dogs are talking
through one mouth, breathing through it, too.
everything’s stale, but they’re just happy
to share spit, sing the same note.
is it too much to ask?

Meg McCarney is a full-time student, poet, and friend at Lesley University studying Creative Writing. Her work has been published/is forthcoming in CP Quarterly, Rust & Moth, Commonthought, Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle, Plum Recruit, Apricity Press, and Oddball Magazine. She adores Jeopardy re-runs, corgi puppies, and baking oatmeal raisin cookies.