Voraginous Wounds

by Drea Jane Kato

What I want is not anything
offered here.  What I want
is jeweled red horses, chains
connecting all my organs,
a mangled music box heart.

Reality is destroying me
and something great
is seeping out
through my veins.
I inhale the smoke
and accept things as they are.
It is officially dissolved.
Promises, promises..

What I want is a nostalgia
like acid burning holes in me.
What I want is angels reaching down
from their delicate ether palace,
touching me underneath my clothes.

What I want is a mosquito net
to choke you with
and a pond to toss you in after.
What I want is to watch
a river of mucus float by
filled with fish that dance
and light up like
little balls of hope.

I want the air to smell like
candy and animal flesh and coffee.
I want to see rainbows every day.
What I want is every president's
head on a platter.  What I want is

to eat and drink and have sex
like everyone but I can't.
What I want is to live in crystal castles
and her death; I imagine it sounding
like velcro, then a weak
almost inaudible sound.

What I want is to pull a trigger
that pulls a million triggers,
a watermelon scent in the brain,
a sunflower field, additional siblings.

What I want is trash in my veins,
every single person walking down the street
sane and well and
sex with cake.