In Haste and Escape and things / we can’t erase

Sometimes I want to be
selfish with my words for
once. Go on and on about
dried pineapples and beach
hammocks even if they’re
not related. My vision of a
perfect day is a book and
a sugary artificial fruit that
is sweetening my lips with
an ocean dribbling down
my chin and maybe some
people can’t connect my
vision with what they see
in front of them. I hate this
abrupt change of topic to
biology when that’s all this
dream-packed poem was trying
to escape, but it’s written all
over my face, in eyelids (or
lack thereof) and in paleness,
one sees veins warily observing
blood as it circulates from
foreign parts of a distant
body—loved ones they
haven’t met yet—inserting
themselves like cords. Let’s
not bring this back to Biology
when the closest folk to
us will never bleed to see
our vision. Blood scares
me; how can I tell every
pint how much I want/love
this/that when they all stop
at the same second and, in
unison, go what? Come
again? They hasten their flow
in excitement. Blood
pressure goes up; I’m dizzy
and afraid. This isn’t a book I
put down or an ocean I spit
out. A doctor once told me
there is too much fluid in
my body and when I get
sick I throw up more than
the ordinary being. I don’t
know if that guy was a real
doctor (or how the “selfish
poem” turned out like
this), because where I
live, everyone seems to
make an assumption and
call it medicine. Everyone
turns to another body
of water/blood when they
can’t escape their own.