moving on justwrite

This sounds like a revelation, and I tell him I have a whole book of them, pages and pages that leave my fingerprints riddled with paper cuts, my hands like torn lace. I stare at them and scream that I'm unique, hope I leave bloody handprints on your shorts, tell you to test the DNA and see if you find yourself. You won't. You'll find blueberries, swollen and warm, bobbing in bowls of cream, tiny life preservers floating like dandelion wishes on a whispered breath. You'll find fingers full of language, eyes that speak more than they blink, a pale, round stomach that has forgotten what it is to live for no one but yourself. I am trapped in a room with no door and no roof. I'm stacking books like stairs but haven't written enough to climb out. The dirt I'm sitting in fell out of your bones; I feel it in my lungs when I breathe. My voice is full of dust, an old photograph of dead relatives, a whole picture with empty space that's hard to realize but easy to feel, the colors off somehow, the shadows filled with noise. When I cough, storm clouds race from between my lips, but the rain they bring is mud, clay that sticks and dries, my joints stiff afterward, my features frozen. You call me statuesque, then bring a hammer down against my skin. These tiny cracks look like paper cuts, my body shredded lace, and from within me come skinless blueberries, oozing into each other, falling in motionless clumps by my feet. My stomach is round and pale, sheltering a thought, a dandelion wish, an old photograph torn in half. I face the sky and tell him I've had a revelation. I crumble. You pack the dust from my bones back into yours, hammer them shut, and move on.