By Dara Goodale

    

                  disassemble

the self              I choke on foreign       pieces   

nobody is going to take     the nails    out

of my mouth  

they press   cold,    sharp             into flesh    

   pierce raw   through         dense cheek    

I could spit but       I’d miss
          the  taste:           bitter tang
of copper        metallic echo 

      of violence      

           I’m left with a    smile

that    shreds past lips   in a sting  of    

            steel    shark    teeth

lying

to myself is    easy          if I don’t

       wield my hand like a knife

it’s only a surface wound;       relax:

         it’s not fair if no one bleeds

I am drowning     in slow motion 

all I do is       lie on my back  in the dark;

slice my feet on the     razor edge

             cusp of adulthood

        stranger:

    I’ll take off my clothes but

         can I borrow your name   

mine feels like silt on        mangled tongue

                I’ve never been patient     

      I want                                 to consume    

      something that matters:                God;

look

      I can’t help what you’ve made me

all this soft tissue

sick with desire     pulsing      repulsing       

     somebody     turn me inside out,    

                 corporeal chrysalis              

     I hate the cold        I’ll come back
           when    it’s spring and

    I’m beautiful    

Dara Goodale (they/she) is a Romanian-American lesbian, poet, and university student living in Lausanne, Switzerland. They write about mental health as someone who is bipolar, grief, and identity. You can find their work in Underbelly Press, The B’K, Thimble Literary Magazine, and The Passionfruit Review later this year.