After Oiwa

A mouth—my mouth?—contorts

a howl, rages red in strewn mirror shards.

I snatch one up—cut—blood slivers south.

My eye is blinded silver, skin a seared sculpture

clawed by my own repulsed fingers—

white oil ripped from my face, thumbs painted

crescent moons in a flesh drenched night.

The floor disappears beneath black snakes—

poisoned hair pulled from burning scalp—

and I wish to be paper-thin, a lantern,

with paper lips and paper thoughts

and only the wind to seek revenge on.