(c) 2/25/2025
Most nights I stuff myself, ravenous
for fat, for alcohol, anything
to push my skin outward—
to increase the plane—
the surface--
so that it might be brushed
absentmindedly on the sidewalk,
in doorways.
I take opportunities to see the doctor
and though it pains me to be seen
I drop my drawers in a second.
All those mammograms.
The pokes and prods.
Drawn blood. The speculum.
As intimate as a pedicure,
a manicure, a massage.
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.
