My knuckles. On your door. Thin wrist, like it might snap. I want my bones to feel this brittle - hips bruised against a cold hardwood floor, spine against doorknob, elbow slammed into plaster, arm twisted back, wrist gripped tight in your fist - thin, like it might snap. I am a ghost, retracing old steps.
Doorbell broken, button ripped from the plastic case. One thin wire exposed.
But there are fingerprints. Fingerprints and shed skin.
You suck the hem of old blankets, the silky part, soggy as a salted matzo cracker between your lips. Too big for your mouth. No different than licking sauce from a steak knife, or stealing the sugar bowl and dipping the wet tip of your finger into the crystals, the granules shifting like sand, your fingerprint shattered, as if on broken glass.
Note: This entry originally appeared on my other site, evidentiary: alchemy. When I changed the purpose and theme of that site, I moved this entry here and assigned it the same date as it had for the original post.