too many rooms

Christiana Jasutan

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To my left is a detached limb, the joint like an unscrewed bolt
rusted to the colour of kidneys. I wonder how long it takes

 

for a heart to oxidize, to shrink into a lonely chamber. 
Most days I don’t know which mouth tastes sour, 

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which bone shrieks and which marrow is hollow 
like an apology in a bitten tongue. 

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Some mornings my tissues scream for breakfast, 
my organs spill like dust above eyelashes. 

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I am girl turned rooms turned occupation. 

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Body breaking like sunlight hitting glass, 

skin shredding like katsuobushi. 

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There are always too many rooms in here.