Pores by Aarushi Ammavajjala

pull apart her pores and stick your fingers in her gooey skin, 

siphon out the soil stuffed in the pockmarks on her face; 

hold it in your smoky hands, look for shining crystals, 

let it fall through your palms, onto the plastic marble floor, 

crush a sapling between the pads of your fingertips, 

greener than the emeralds in her eyes 

scrape your nails over the sinewy muscles under her skin, 

that pulse like waves over the ocean 

become hypnotized by the faint smell of scorched salt 

tear through the starchy water; 

scrape the seas off her face 

there is water on the floor and it is turning black, 

swallowing all the dirt from the scratches on your ankles 

the salt in the puddle around you is from your tears but it still dehydrates;

petrifies, calcifies your feet 

you take a step back and there’s a loud snap underneath your foot, the plastic foundation gives way and pulls your knee close 

shards of plastic needle their way up your leg; 

and you grasp at her face on the pedestal above you, 

and gasp at the way you’ve turned her into stone 

peeled back paper-thin layers of green, and replaced them 

with green layers of paper money; 

left behind dead bedrock 

stripes of carbon track through her face and stripes of carbon track down your cheeks 

you cry; you cry because the world around you is 

built, man-made, and it’s falling apart 

and the world you clasp is barren, 

and the words you wish you had reek of nothingness 

synthetic oceans slip from the walls; 

Why don’t you 

just let the numbing water dissolve the shells of your arteries? 

choking on your own breath, 

you claw at the rock left on her face, 

and your desperation starts to flay the bedrock away, 

What is beneath the last layer of the Earth? 

What is left when nothing is left? 

just before you can see the truth; 

your acid eyes melt away 

dehydrated;  petrified, calcified