The Room I

The room is antiseptic white
Unmarked and uninterrupted, it
Eats the clean skin, the clean
Unfuckable flesh, it eats the –

Who are you? You do not see
The room with your bulging eye of
Red. You are not loyal to the
Room as I, do not carry its
Thick placenta.

You cannot enter the room. You
Cannot debase the room with your
Body. You do not feed the room the
Unsplit skin, the slip of the white pill
Fat with gleam.

The room is antiseptic white –
And I, chaste and unaffected
Sleep beside only sharp blades.

The Room II

The room is an organ, embryonic and interminable –
It does not see me with its unholy eye. It is inattentive.
Its uniformity is what I mind most. It treats me as alien,
As the incompatible growth within itself, fetal tissue
Which absorbs only its likeness, consumes only its kind.

What does the moon eat? That icebox virgin,
Awake in her bed of steel.

She is of those who have never been touched. She feeds me
Nothing, offers nothing. She alone stares into my window,
Her inanimate womb mocking my own sterility.
When I leave my room, the moon does not follow. It is
The room that I carry with me. Its antiseptic odors keep me thin,
Place others on guard. I am treated as a strange event.
I am as hygienic as a hospital gown. I am only teeth.
I have abstained from the interests of men.

I am impermeable. I am marked by difference.
The room regards me as stillborn. There is nothing outside of the room.