"swelling"- by Isabella Joseph
Muscles are concentrated
strung cells.
The rawness of
such is
hidden
in layers
over
la
ye
rs.
From flesh
to blood
to skin
to all it is underneath.
Like clothes from the elements, there is
skin
from an everholding loud, holding
a humid quiet.
Atmospheres apart.
A pickaxe to stone, bone strikes.
A clamp shut, contact
among like substances,
foreign existing
saturated between.
An insatiable need
to peel away.
But refusal.
Frustration at limits.
Internalized hyperactivity.
Concentration of blood between
enamel and what needed to be stripped
hates to be touched.
A usually tolerable pain can’t be justified.
Fend off from the voice
forcing a trigger to restart a process just healed.
Swollen insides lacking substance.
The pain to come
is something of the future.
In the present
the sound of
detached flesh
hangs softly.
