My Prison is Artificial and I Might Be Real
When you first pressed my shape
into this molded Borosilicate glass,
I had a fever of 104 degrees. Burning
skin from bone doesn’t come naturally,
though I could tell you thought otherwise.
Release me from this prism! is something
I thought often, my captor, my friend.
Never kiss me again, I’m married
is something you told me after
I kissed you, two months in.
Your lips tasted like water stains
and rusty chrome and polyester.
I was exhausted from making rainbows and
making rainbows and making rainbows
while I hung from the window frame,
waiting for the sun to move along.
Every day, I thought it was over
but every day I’d shoot red, orange,
yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet
onto the scarred linoleum tile, enslaved.
I was waiting for you to slip, to kiss me back,
to ache for my ribs and retinas compressed inside.
Nathan Kemp lives in Akron, Ohio where he is a first year graduate student in Northeast Ohio Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing.