He's hard to come by like
Charles Manson on sandpaper,
palms squeaking against leather.
I don't think he has much of
a mind these days, only
laughing at blank white walls, only
tracing door frames.
He makes me look at doors like
Take your stomach, tie it
in a knot, maybe squeeze it to feel
it in between his fingers;
and he says he ain't talented.
When he leaves a room, everyone
is silent for a moment,
unsettled as house pets
before a storm
and you can't help but love him
like sticking your fingers in
It's a curiosity that melts your fingers,
leaving behind an emptiness you
can feel on your skin.
He's hungry, carnivorous, that
type of gnashing starvation
that makes people think about
I swear there's a deadness in
his limbs and it's contagious.
It says, "Keep shaving, drag the
razor until there's nothing left of you.”
It's contagious, disguised as
liberation pulsing in your chest
and trust me, you'll catch it too.
- Hanna Harris 2015
Hanna Harris is a 17-year-old, Los Angeles based slam poet and student. She works for Persephone's Daughters Magazine and lives with her cat, Leo.