Exhibit: Self As Knife

I peeled back my face

with museum lighting—

pinned each expression

like a rare moth:

grief with violet wings,

lust still twitching.

My ribs opened

like cabinet drawers.

Inside:

an invoice for every touch

I mistook as love.

The heart was mislabeled.

(Artifact unknown. Possibly decorative.)

My blood clotted in cursive.

Spelled: We warned you.

Still, I smiled—

chrome teeth,

index finger tagged,

swinging beneath

a plaque that read:

DO NOT FEED

THE EXHIBIT.