After Picasso’s “Women in Waiting”

This room tastes of plastic
cadavers. The carpet,
stitched with rusty silk,
holds a woman whose eyes
can’t stop drinking her own holes.

For years
she has wished her skin
tree bark, thought
her clothes held too many
ideas that weren’t hers,

and every room feels
the same way as this. Haunted
by a soundtrack of words
and cartoon walls built
with sick faces that wear
like taxidermy. People

and their limbs,
touching like the matchsticks
that come too many
in a pack, stuck in
the pain that stays
like clock hands
on street lamps.

Everyone save her
clamps their ears
from this noise,
wears costume jewelry
to stop the drown
of their sewer veins,
belonging only to
the bruises on
their back.


2 thoughts on “After Picasso’s “Women in Waiting”

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