Centaurs Poem by Quênia Lalita

things I can't make sense of
are the same things that used to reside
on the tip of my tongue

like my birthmarks and tattoos
aquired stretch marks and residues of bad puns
residing on my oily skin

childhood photographs aren't as nice nowadays
I flip through pages like some kind of lunatic
looking for answers I'll never find

but questions reside and reproduce in my soul
dissecting phobias and disorders
as if I were already dead

who knows
who cares
who can affirm that centaurs don't actually exist