Routine Killings

No one sees blood but me.

I think my pupils are dyed red.

And they are fooling me.

When I see gunshot wounds

in my blueberry pancakes

and scabs on the bottom of my shoes,

I topple over sidewalks,

feeling my insides release like posters succumbing to fallen pins,

caving in on my ribcage.

[There is a bear punching around

the calcium cabin beside my heart.]

When the morning waves are crashing into each other

on the vacant side of the beach

I watch two delicate, skyscrapers of women

claw at pieces of skin they catch on the other

and stab one another in the eyes

until blindness becomes marginal for everyone 

who is not already me

or blind.

And maimed seagulls

and legless jellyfish wash and fling themselves upon and across

a stained shore.

And when I lay in the warm evening grass

as vicious vigilante ants stomp over my honey-drenched fingers

I feel I have started a mini world war three;

their tiny legs become even tinier machine guns,

their even even tinier mouths blow up

the little villages built atop my arm veins.

The flesh I carry 

becomes an impromptu battleground:

my thighs house canons, 

my pelvis ports submarines,

and bullets and sprinkle bodies litter my calves.

I lay there and watch with little whimpers

as bite marks wash over me and teeth grip onto 

the sensitive pressure points on the borders of flesh guarding my pubic bone,

I watch the bloodbath swirl all in the perfect, extinguisher red gory technicolor palettes,

I watch the insect widows weeping

I watch the arachnids saw off their legs with the teeth of dead soldiers

I watch the queen bee get plowed by the tank she ordered

I watch their blackened guts being washed away by garden hoses and muddied by sprinklers.

And the Sun is shining burgundy.