number one soul-seller,
preacher in the language of the flesh
don’t take this wrong, but
you’d look better with the lights off.
eyes where my skin should be,
rolling back to the bloodshot whites as you
push your fingers into a bruise,
or maybe it’s as simple as
an excavation,
the screaming of all the parts you can’t manage
to scrape out; hollowed, but in the best way,
an exterminator’s hands on a tree full of termites
i can trace my own fingerprints,
dust at a crime scene or
a long-nailed clairvoyant, touch light
on my palms, telling me in a soft voice that i am
far too young to be this tired;
how do i say
i am not the one who won’t let me sleep
now it’s a witch-hunt for the fingers digging under my eyelids
to touch me in the moment i am blind;
i am bare i am buried
i am buried i am bare
it’s a burlesque bloodbath
and i’m armed to the broken white teeth

mckenna judge is a lifelong artist and writer from the boston area, currently attending school in new jersey. she majors in chemistry with a minor in roman language & culture, and she shares her writing with an informal student poetry group called the drunk poets’ society.