Bleed

The landlord finally woke the beast in the basement.

The pipes are screaming, a metallic sort of grief

that travels up through the floorboards and into my heels.

I leaned my forehead against the white, flaking paint.

It hissed at me. A sharp, wet intake of breath

smelling like scorched hair and a closet left shut for a decade.

The steam hit my bangs and turned them into limp, hot wires.

I didn't move. I liked the way it felt—angry and certain.

Between the fins, where the dust gathers in thick, gray ropes,

a spider is curled into a tight, brittle ball.

It’s turning to ash, a white flake of nothing

drifting up on the heat like a piece of burnt-out news.