Mewling

 (c) 2/25/2025

Most nights I stuff myself, ravenous

for high-fat foods, alcohol, anything

to push my skin outwards, to increase the plane

the surface, to create space, a range

so that my skin will be brushed

absentmindedly on the sidewalk,

walking in and out of doorways.

I look for opportunities to visit the doctor

and though it pains me to be seen

I drop my drawers in a second. 

All those mammograms. The pokes and prods.

The drawn blood. The speculum.

It is as intimate as the transactional

pedicure, manicure, and massage.

And in grade school I was the target,

pummeled on the playground every few days.

Maybe that had nothing to do with their demons.

Maybe I was genius, making myself mewling

pathetic, a kicked dog. Maybe I knew

it was guaranteed touch.