Anger and Going Home - rendition

May 20 2024 10:41pm

I am inside the freezer. A home to babies and corpses and a napkin I used months ago. I’m uncomfortable. I’m upset because the bends of my knees feel like some sort of desperate amalgamation of part and tide. Separation doesn’t cure heat sensitivity and a street lamp won’t stress injustice, but they say he knows what he’s doing. He only looks between the rods when our teeth turn brown, so we assemble lasting links and pretend our bodies can survive off of one another. All of this to say, my hunger cannot be given to you, my mother cannot nurse you to sleep, and ziplock bags cannot keep these temperatures livable. You have to find a hand to hold and scrape the plaque off your teeth with the tongue that God gave you.

— ODH