Content warning: body dysmorphia, blood

This glasshouse gallery has no ceiling,

and the blood of my callouses is

slicked, like hot oil paint on its walls.

I try to climb out, and my head anchors

me down. My eyes eclipse a searing red.

There is nothing here but gods of

marble—the hands of Michelangelo.

Moulds that seem impossible to fill.

A Vitruvian army with a laser-

focused gaze, forever fixed on me.

Outside are more eyes—sharp like chisels,

untamed tongues—blunt like chisels.

If my blood were a curtain, I would not feel

the eyes making me wormly. I would not hear

the tongues telling me: “stone statues don’t cry.”

And it rains on the ceiling, but the ceiling

is not there. The rain is the brine that

washes the paint away—crumbling the marble.

The running paint is thick, the broken

statues are sharp; so I slide my fingers

down the razor. I am choking on it all.