by Laura Voivodeship

These flights of madness
even out the stories
I tell. Threadbare

lines I scrawl on walls
begin with bite
marks and fingerprints.

And proof? the sound
of your voice, the length
of your spine, the weight

of your shadow as
it weighed down on mine.
If this is what insanity

feels like, I can insist
on a fiction, fake
a death, cross

a country with concrete
ideas. The closer I come,
the less I exist

outside what it is
I have written.