I want to cut off parts of myself,
to see if like the axolotl,
I’ll regenerate—
A soft pink thing is often how,
I’ve felt stepping outside my apartment.
I have decorated it, my tank, with rocks and nooks, in case
I don’t feel up for interaction.
My lungs and legs swim around excuses to stay put.
I want parts of my brain removed, bad memories—small fractions from the hippocampus.
Sliced into tadpoles and worms.
I’ve always swallowed gravel,
from birth, volcanic soil spewed—but slow, like honey.
Buoyant and spry, I age according to the weather—
juvenile face replaced with late thoughts,
still—
I dance.
