This is my thesis:
I am a body of evidence.
Everything dies by the minute
and I am no different.
I feel the body breaking down,
the elastics that keep me together
fading, stretching to infinity.

Rub tea into my skin; preserve me.
Embog me. The world must know
the horrors that happen in suburbia,
unwanted thrusts, bashing of skulls.
A hot summer night emblazoned 
with breakage. And each night
it steals more of me. Do not touch
or you will receive the poison,
the secondhand shock of rape.

Academia chases the pain away.
Bury myself in the chemical concoction
of concentration. If I read of others
I cannot think of myself. And at 2am,
when I am emptied of feeling, dead and cold,
I prepare. Analyze my wasted braids,
marvel at the preservation of victimization.
One day the world will think of me disembodied
but somehow hugely alive, centuries past.
We sink each minute, I watch us waste away,
and I think nothing but of taphonomy.
How to tell my story from the sea grave.