First, she tastes her movements like salt and
is then aware of her pulling fingers; she
has stopped biting her lip but now works
at it with a hand forked into a claw.
It keeps going, shucking off dead skin like some
old coat and she looks across the room; the tank
needs to be cleaned—she watches the red
body of her fish seize in staccato movements
across the glass of his house, watches it
before turning off the light.
Her bed is cold. She lays with her head in
her elbows and her knees gathered against her
breasts—cocked and ready for what
she does not know
She imagines when she is asleep, her hand
will continue it’s frantic shedding; eagerly
exposing it’s host from the mouth on to some
thing in that dark looming ever upwards with
eyes full of teeth.
Michelle Lin is a creative writing student at University of California, Riverside. Despite her family’s tendency to produce doctors, pharmacists, accountants, and bankers, she fell in love with poetry at a young age and pursued it ever since. Michelle is the 2010-2011 editor of the art and literary journal Mosaic. Her work has been published in other literary journals such as Every Day Poets and Breadcrumb Scabs. When she is not writing poetry, she is geocaching. She lives in Torrance with her betta fish, Handsome Rob.