i play dead in such a way

my roommate actually believes

i am. how many times, she asks,

do you die in a day?  

 

i stitch one answer to the next; i make a seam with something

unorthodox. countless, i say – in a dress mimicking the moon.

 

in one of my memories,

i’m at the edge of a room filled with stalagmites & blood, in

a pool of mixed paroxysms. my mouth’s filled with gravel & the air, dense with salt water. i don’t pick up my tooth.

i leave it there. no white tissues. i get up slowly & bang hard.

hard on a wooden door is a 3 year old’s fist, curled up

like a sleeping dog.

 

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Akubudike Deborah is an emerging poet and lyricist. Her works have been featured in The Rialto, Brown Sugar Lit Mag and elsewhere. She can be reached on Twt: @akubudikedebbie; Blog: adpoet.home.blog.