Clone

while spinning the laundry,
i accidentally threw in my lower half.
because of a palm-sized patch of sunlight,
the countless leaf tips on my fingers itch.
like a half-rotted old tree,
surviving to the end feels unbearably tedious.
the heavy ceiling stretches out my feet under the sun.
putting on socks means
hiding soles that no longer exist.
even when i rise on tiptoes,
people pass me by.
all the shadowless things
begin to bruise as the night falls.
“child, why do you stare so quietly?”
the eyes in my stomach
are brimming with life.
an old cup flips over,
scattered lips neatly fold a heart,
& yet,
it’s not time.
i’m not dead.
coats hung on the rack scream & rush toward me.
“you were cut off yesterday.
how are you spreading through every door crack?”
wet footprints swell,
the dampness rising.
my nails, wrung dry,
emerge clipped—
shorter,
& shorter still.