roll it up into a ball and cover it in aluminum foil and stick it to the end of a metal rod to catch a bolt of lightning. put it down the front of your shirt and press it flat against your skin like a shield. toss it in your mouth, maneuver it between your teeth with your tongue, across your gums and into the back of your throat. let it touch your uvula before you spit it back onto the table. knead it with both hands and your elbows, leave little marks in it with your fingernails. spin it into yarn, knit yourself a sweater and then pull it apart stitch by stitch. wrap it around your neck as tight as possible until you see spots, then unravel it and stick it under your pillow as you sleep. find it in your dreams, hurl it against a wall until it breaks into pieces. put the pieces in a blender, run it without the lid, let it coat your kitchen walls. sit on the cold floor tiles and look at the mess you’ve made.
Salem Paige (they/them) is a twenty-two-year-old poet whose works revolve around the exploration of identity through discomfort. You can find Paige @corpseofapoet on instagram and twitter.