This prompt was to deconstruct a song by listening to it and emulating the movement, somehow, in poetry. The song I chose, as abstract as it might be to this poem, was Garbage’s “When I Grow Up” Link.
Raging, perhaps, about the blisters,
the fingers torn raw as they scratch
and claw against another self-sealed box
in yet another bout of autoerotic asphyxiation
gone wrong. As though it might go right
to the edge of chaos: your domain. No,
ours. I am complicit; I see that,
with my own childish insecurity –
You were drunk, but you called me a 10
and the drag queen said, “How generous of you
to think of him that way.” And I blamed you,
unfairly, so we slept separate for ugly reasons.