Fish

I don’t want to go out because
going out means leaving my house
and leaving my house means
the earthquakes come.
Meeting people’s eyes causes
natural disasters and I still
haven’t rebuilt myself since
the last cyclone in my rib cage.
It tore the wallpaper off the walls
and left a museum inside my
stomach. Who wants to go
through these remnants, 
leave their fingerprints in my dust?
No, it is better to keep behind
closed doors. Don’t disturb
the silence. My last conversation
turned my mouth into a riverbed
bled dry. The fish here are
dead. Silver scales coat every
surface; they rot, here, they decay. 
You can smell it in the air:
the drought, the lightning,
the summer storms. It takes
everything out of
everything. I am
parched.

By Martina Dominique Dansereau

Biography:

Martina Dominique Dansereau is a disabled, non-binary lesbian writer and artist whose work centres on trauma and marginalisation, particularly through personal experiences with violence, disability, mental illness, gender, and LGBT issues. When not entrenched in academia or creating art, xe enjoys reading books with xyr snakes, who often fall asleep between the pages. You can find xem on Twitter and Instagram @herpetologics.