in which i implode

the sun slices rain in half with a pocket knife
and i mourn it with soggy fingers,
eyes coral pink like the time the skyline bled
into heat’s ripples. sweat boils in lungs, cooking
a feast of maggots—it leaves cherry blisters
on skin, bleach corroded leather and bloody knees
split open & horrible
veins licking the wind. a bouquet of serpent tongues.
little writhing worms for bone marrow,
little palms pressed
against the inside of murky eyes—they say
eyes are the windows to the soul, all
i know are little cobweb woven curtains
and little woman shoulders cradling my little ghost.
sometimes i drown in the shower the same way i do
in stagnant pools & dream & burst into liquid tendrils
like body horror or a sonata or a clump of red moss—
rusty waves flooding the sewer, palm prints
on water-varnished rocks, a timelapse of fungi
growth until my neurons crumble and the world
folds in upon itself into a single ball of lint-
adorn microfibre yarn, rage red august sunset,
broken ac and opaque smoke. all i know is everything
crammed into this empty room. the walls are bursting.

Raphael Emmae (they/them) is an Asian writer. They’re currently a junior at Interlochen Arts Academy, where they major in creative writing. They like safety pins and other shiny objects. Find them on Twitter @chlorinecrow.