perfume dip
it's what comes when you stretch the skin
on my wrist
well
it's a well for welcomed wellness
it's a name i give myself
one that you call me
before being asked to
one that leaves my fingers sticky,
sticking to me,
unsure of
what glues to what
and which parts
are art,
in the dark room
splattering my own blood
like paint
and struggling to turn my skin
into translucent petals
to the lens,
elegantly frantic
over the dips
glinting with silver chained wrists,
lit red
desiring desire
