If my fingernails were sharp enough,
I'd peel my skin like old wallpaper.
I'd pick out a corner,
where it puckers against my graying meat,
and yank it away.
I can't imagine blood or pain.
I see only the stuccoed veins and muscle,
plastered together
when all they want is to
collapse apart.
Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time she has either reading or writing. Her works have appeared in numerous publications and her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Web. Her debut novel, The Rose Master, will be published in 2014.
Craig Kurtz
Index Denied
Reinvestment Order
Erin Dorney
This Is Not A Poem About
Fast Food
Left
Tim Kahl
Plasma Globe
Alison McCabe
I Watch Myself Loop
Dan Boehl
excerpts from whatever
from @emoemoji
Vanessa Couto Johnson
(t)ravel
neces(sit)ies
Valentina Cano
Planned Remodeling
Ryan Napier
Seasonal Affective Disorder
Terry Wolverton
Sizzle and Chew
Gregory Crosby
Satan's Skull Glows White Hot
Lea Galanter
When Lost in the Woods
Jake Sheff
Stasis in Ragtime
Angelica Poversky
Enough
Mercedes Lawry
In Late November, There Are
Days of False Clemency