Lathered soap
’till my skin split open
the kind of clean
that squeaks under a finger
the kind of hospital smell
clean that burns

I’ll be the first to warn you
that something is still waiting
some seven-legged dead
some tablecloth disruption
while company is over
something is waiting to crawl out

The sound-makers
(men with coffee tins and rusty nails)
say it’s beautiful
that ghastly rattle
write papers about it
take another narrow drag
I say it’s white noise
song I breath in time to
metal bent
in unspeakable ways

I hear their whispering
plans to pry the secret
out of my cavity mouth
once I fall asleep

So I won’t sleep
squash circadian rhythm
cigarette butt in sidewalk
two feet at a time
bloodbath skinny dip

(They can’t be the ones to hear it
before I do.)

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