My Prison is Artificial and I Might Be Real by Nathan Kemp

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

 

Nathan Kemp lives in Akron, Ohio where he is a first year graduate student in Northeast Ohio Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing.

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