My skin flicks fluorescence. I appear;
I disappear, zap back as the nurses tag me.
They breathe me in. They search for scars
and say self-harm when they are not.
My face pufferfishes, eyes bloom fret,
stomach mushrooms over my thighs.
This room is a cave,
my body a fat stalactite—
overgrown rock but no crystal.
My sight smears with tears.
I am not here; I am not real.
I do not feel. The ladies cattleprod
my nicks with popsicle sticks. Scientists
have found a way to make diamonds
in microwaves. We can birth anything
true if we sterilize it enough.
I await my petri dish,
my gripper socks. I am here;
I am not. Diamonds are dirty
or clean. At my best, I live
in-between, a highway median.
The hospital’s goal: to chisel me
into myself again, out
of shards. But I am not art.
I look at my mirrored body
in the glass. I understand the gloves,
the dimmed lights
nearly obscuring me. Who
would ever want to touch me raw,
on purpose. I harden.
–
Samantha Fain is a writer from Indiana. Her first chapbook, Coughing Up Planets, debuted with Vegetarian Alcoholic Press in March, and her microchap, sad horse music, debuted with The Daily Drunk in May. Her work has appeared in The Indianapolis Review, SWWIM, 8 Poems, and others. She tweets at @smnthfn.