even at your worst, you're the best, with a sick bowl, forehead pushed against the side of the bathtub. Your skin is clear and unmarked (and if it is, it's only in ways that matter to you) and i watch you complain, checking the surface in your phone camera as I waste plastic stickers on my skin. sweetheart. stop. you don't blush or squint. you can rub your eyes in a million ways, drag your palm across your face as I sit burning. sometimes when I'm with you and her, I see myself from above, and beside-detached from my body, a thin twisted grotesque shape, barely a girl-a slip of feminine feeling, more monster, less woman. she's not shaped right and I'll never be able to explain. I think we've changed each other in huge endearing ways, but I'm worse and I realise now that I'm ill, and i have been for awhile-maybe years to put it truly. did you know my face grew and shrunk morphed and twisted while we were eating soup? sweet, I couldn't look away from the spoon and I made a mess like I always do. I hated every bit, couldn't you see. it's okay that I don't make sense, because neither do you-you're this effortless cool, and I'm wondering how. I'll spend my monday praying before we go out tomorrow. hopefully I'll feel a little better by then
YOU ARE READING
jolie memphis
PoesiSuzanne led me over to the gap, that pale opaque liquid seeping into my skin-honey, I realised. she leaned in close, voice warm and soft, the scent of aniseed on her breath. you can be anyone you want, she whispered. I closed my eyes. who are yo...
