another poem about having traffic lights just outside my bedroom window

A poem by David Turner

starfishing. staring at elongated panes of yellow light racing across emulsioned white plains. traversing gaping fissures. staring as the mixture of blood and saliva pools at the back of my throat. i used to long for this taste. either as my cheek rested against her cold thigh or as their keeper rings threatened to tear through my cheek. the only true comforts. the only escapes. for four months i followed cuntbarf’s blog. incessantly reading and re-reading her recipe for menstrual blood cookies. i practiced by digging toothpicks into soft gums as i ate rich tea biscuits. (the norwegian for gum translates directly as tooth meat.) the obsession with the recipe abated before i worked out how to collect my blood

Artwork © Agata Cardoso