By Sophie Westergren
This morning I shaved my pubes into a flooded bathtub. That piece of green buried in my lower gum finally came out.
It was brown and dried.
It was crawling from my wet socket.
Into a flooded bathtub.
I like stroking the things most likely to kill me.
The back window of his 1999 Polo doesn’t quite roll all the way down—
leaving a smooth curve of glass that I lean my neck into.
My finger curling in a press against it—
I accept it.
Just like always.
I am not trying to die.
I am dying.
My tongue is often blistered.
Today it was from microwavable chicken teriyaki that I had left packed in my backpack for three hours without refrigeration.
It thawed, dripping into my pencil pouch.
When I have sex with someone new,
I have dreams—lying in their bed.
My teeth are decaying—
Only in the center.
Only the edges of a toothy box remaining—
When I’m lying in their bed
My teeth are decaying— Bone & Rot.
Rot & Bone. Rot & Bone.
Sometimes I eat chicken and that’s exactly what I can taste: Bone & Rot.
Its bumpy yellow skin.
I gag almost every time I eat It.
It is my favorite meal.
I am not here just when you want me to have sex with you.
When you think I am not dreaming at all.
That’s when I don’t want to kiss you with my blistered tongue.
I am not here just for you to think I am without flaws.
That I can fix you.
I can’t even fix the pain in my back From falling.
From falling asleep in the shower.