dysmorphic

it’s nine o’ clock when i realise how i am stuffed like sawdust into my own skin,
breaking like a wave across the ripples of my joints, conjecturing to myself
about the roughly-sewn hems, the inkblot frays, waterlogged fingers leaving bruises
along my arms in the shades of storms and poems.
i am leaking out at every seam like an overturned sink left to rust, bloated cheeks
and swollen stomach, head like a balloon swelling to the touch,
broken glass and vinegar insipid between the waterfall thighs.
i realise of myself the thick dark red line 
smouldering still like an angry scribble or remnant of a flame i could never
quite put out:
it cuts right through to the centre of me, rearranges the viscera and hums
against my bone, twisting in my gut, stabbing
right through every artery.
it echoes the wavecrash tucked between two mountains hidden underneath a third.
it is nine when i watch smudges of hands caught in the slice of moonlight,
pale and fat, cream and ivory in the harsh night-hours, casting shadows
on the wastelands of my shoulders and the pickup truck downslope running across my arms
creating conflation of the light and dark and tearing down the divisions
between the two.

i light myself on fire
the way a forest fire will burn down the tallest tree out of spite.
i left a note:
shooting star. naked, bloating. shone like the stars do as they die
and left behind a supernova;