I live in a body
built from mud and sand.

The pain in my neck,
pitifully ploughs,
the stumbling ease,
slapped across my chest.

Buried in the rivers,
that rustle down my throat,
lives a crescent abomination.

Dipped in the death
ketchup taught to be blood.

I don’t know what
living means
if I don’t see the end.

I break the finish line from its roots,
chipping it like a tooth;
will it still come for me?

If I don’t meet my memories,
will they even remember me?

I am rehearsing the ritual
that I may die
turning myself inside out
to check for any tares

scanning for signs
that my body may break
before I can make my mind
a comfortable place to exist.

Bella Melardi (she/her) is a poet and artist. She writes about the political and personal. She attends OCADU.

Instagram: @poetluvs