it was something we didn’t want to see. the faces
of our younger selves, dead and floating. we thought
we could shed the past with molting tongues, leave
exoskeletons of our former lives poised and frozen
on tree branches. but the evidence was everywhere.
every rivulet of water reflected our sponge-blood
brains, near-severed hands curled inwards as if
to touch ourselves. but we could never really touch
what we were, there was only what we were becoming:
broken spines and scars like braille on foreheads–
an image loose in the eyeballs, blackness shaken,
the future an iron pincer in our peripheral vision.