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.
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.