by Kalina Smith
Bite marks on my lips, nails, and even hands,
Eyebrows vanish into my widow’s peak.
All the while, my lungs sink in quicksand.
Seeping into me, granules blinding and
In times like these, my vision is so bleak.
Bite marks on my lips, nails, and even hands.
My neck aches at just the slightest demand,
My teeth now ground shards lodged inside my gums,
All the while, my lungs sink in quicksand.
For eternity, how can I withstand?
Still, at twenty-seven, the blackness comes.
All the while, my lungs sink in quicksand,
Bite marks on my lips, nails, and even hands.
***
Kalina is a writer of gothic and literary fiction and confessional nonfiction and poetry. She is a high school English teacher in Arkansas. She has previously been published in Nebo, A Literary Journal, Free Spirit, The Ignatian, FLARE: The Flagler Review, and the Cackling Kettle, and is forthcoming in One Art: a poetry journal.
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