By Georgia Davidson

Art by Abigayle Schroder
I like to think that the branches hanging in my room
will one day achieve new life;
that they will attach themselves back to the black painted tree
and remember my father’s hands and my bird’s feet.
It’s soothing to imagine the boxes under my bed
that I can’t stand to touch
will be flipped through by small, jam covered fingers.
I stall on the belief that possession is my only comfort,
that maybe I’ll stain the counters red
of someone who is not my mother
and that the only liminal space held barren
will be that of the nest above my window.
And in the summertime, I’ll took up to my ceiling
to see ladybugs watching down on me and my demise,
a watercolor of disheveled laundry and clumps of hair.
I summon myself, the red witch of Bedford Ave,
in a frenzie of violent self portraits and perfumed powders,
moving the needle in and out of the dress
and the flesh that is underneath.
And in my shoestring-laced corset,
I cyanotype myself up against the wall,
where there can be proof that the sun was once here.
I tie apples and figs around my waist
and swallow the sticks left out by the wind,
letting them pierce through my tummy.
I braid corn husks into my hair
and lay on my coffee table with my feet up above.
The great horn of plenty!
I look at people who get too close to this sight
and imagine what it would feel like
to trace their neck with my fingertips
or press my cheek up against theirs.
I wonder if they can feel me chewing on their hair.
I’m also afraid people will find me perverted if I glance in their direction
so I only do this when they are turned away.
I like to think that the branches hanging in my room
will one day achieve new life,
and when the ladybugs chain me to the them,
I shall feel their budding leaves in my hair,
their stems in my veins,
and their roots in between my toes.
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