(body)

i inspect my body in every kind
of light. the overhead is the worst
but not by much. daylight
is the best but also
not by much. it’s no life
to pick the best of bad choices.

start of a poem/unfinished

in the dream it is you.
or at least it’s your voice
in a different mouth. or
at least it’s how you blink
hard when you’re thinking
on a different face.
at least it’s your fingers
laced onto different hands
but maybe not, because
in the dream you never
touched me. everything
is wrong when i ask
you questions, you give
me little bits back like
tastes of something terrible.
in the dream it is not me
because not me is yelling,
screaming even and me
doesn’t raise my voice.
she’s yelling what is
the matter with you why
would you do something
like that. i pretend i don’t
know what she’s yelling
about. in the dream it’s
different but only a little.
dreams are a cheap way
to talk about things that
weren’t but could have,
were almost. in the dream
she yells you into the shape
you deserve.

grit/butter

when she imagines me
my face is covered
in flour. it is smeared
along the jawline
perched on the ends
of all the tiny face hairs
only visible because
there are thousands
of grains in the skin
of my cheeks. flour
is just grit that tastes
good with butter.
every thing tastes good
with butter. i haven’t
been with a girl in a long
time. so long that i am still
calling us girls when
we’ve grown women out
of ourselves. if she imagines
me with flour/face it means
she imagines me. that
is all i need to hear.