Splice another vein, smear another molecule. What’s a second bead of blood anyway—you’ve already conceded so many little heartbeats. Do I even recognize myself anymore? Write another one of your strangled, love-lorn poems. Yes, yes, there—look at how thirsty your metaphors have become, licking
up that curl of hair behind her ear, your tongue splitting her patchwork name. I’m so scared to be alone. Slip your fingertips like halters through the guilt-soaked poems you’ve written. Here now, why are your fingers covered in cuts? Crimson
latticing the network of your palms—I deserve this. Since when have you been this emotional; a carousel that won’t stop spinning? Come on. You aren’t that hard to read. Imposter syndrome is described as doubt among high-achieving individuals. You see. You can’t even plead this
as your excuse. So… remind me again: when was the last time you felt comfortable in a crowd? Surely you know that they can taste your corner-table past. Jesus cried blood; you bleed tears. Your friends tell you
that you’d be the first to die in a horror movie: Too busy fighting off the attacker, giving us more time to run. Does that make you the hero or the discard? Can I even tell the difference anymore? All the best leaders give up peelings of themselves, but you’ve never
been a very good sacrifice.
Elsa Kim
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