• These Latex Gloves
    Are so damn tight on my hands
    That I don’t feel my skin
    Beneath. When I open my fingers
    Until they pull back almost forming
    A bowl
    With my wrinkled knuckles
    At the bottom,
    I hope that the material will rip before
    My own skin, but, instead,
    I hear the joints creak.

    These Latex Gloves
    Are so thin
    That the hair in between my knuckles
    And my fingertips
    Has grown through,
    Only the pale of the plastic
    Proves to my eyes that I am even wearing them.
    The wrist is tight and
    I can’t slide my fingers underneath.
    I pried a knife underneath
    But the blade slipped too far
    And blood seeped from the p***k
    So close to my veins that
    I never tried again.

    These Latex Gloves
    Have driven me mad.
    I found a curling iron beneath the sink and
    I turned it to full heat.
    The metal looks as cool and shiny as it always has.
    Only the glow of the light on the hilt indicates any different.
    I take a breath and feel the alcohol of the spilled cleaning supplies
    Burn off the iron and into my nose.
    I hold it away.
    I know it will hurt,
    But my fingers run numb over the rubber of the grip
    And I wrap my hand around the steel.

    These Latex Gloves
    Turn to liquid as they cook beside my skin.
    I can feel the heat paint my palm red beneath,
    But I don’t let go.
    Instead, I rotate it and watch the latex pull from my hand,
    Bubbling and seared to the iron.
    I turn the heat off, but don’t pull my hand away.
    The steel is still warm, and feels perfect against my
    Blistered palm.