G. Z. Kieft

i think

i do my most exciting writing

when the sockets of my eyes sink

so deep into my skull that

the thoughts are just pressed from

my tear drums like icing

when my skin is stretched

thin over my bones

like cellophane on leftovers

stowed deep into the belly

of your fridge with the door left open

to be ignored

to be gluttoned in time

until i am spoiled and bored

when the tapper of my fingertips

rip against the hollowed keys

of my laptop as the screen breathes

seduction into my brain

thinking something i’m thinking

is relevant to another soul

as if

there is another soul

who would care to spare the space

of the trauma they’ve grown

to delight me in the romanticization

of my own