at first, this terrible mirror, gutted. it is thinking of taking me.
at midnight, screaming illness, I fill a particular dark. I rustle, I
thrash—a girl loose in the bramble, getting wretched, smashing
up a glass syringe. how to return this rage, how it circles endless
—like bruise, like stone too black. I get hurt in you, becoming
skeleton. my ruffles everywhere, wilting.
a lot of me comes out: pulp, cherry syrup, clot in the skirt.
he says, it’s like a crime scene down there. I drip over the
grasses. at dusk, I climb inside a beaded purse, to get safe.
I fold into a wet dot, oily, rumpled in the creases. he stands
over me with weapons, with appetite, with a horse bridle
and bowls of disinfectant, makes me a sanitary girl.
Emily Corwin is a Midwestern girl who loves all things pretty. She is currently an MFA candidate in poetry at Indiana University-Bloomington. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Winter Tangerine, Painted Bride Quarterly, Rust + Moth, smoking glue gun, and Word Riot. Her chapbook, My Tall Handsome was recently published through Brain Mill Press, and in the coming year, she will serve as Poetry Editor for the Indiana Review. You can follow her at @exitlessblue.