I shed the pounds like seasons—but autumn was always just below my skin—and I know it should be wrong. I know, I know, I know –
I don’t know anything but the touch of Conibear traps and how bile flushes through a stomach straw when I see necks disjointed, pinched—my neck tied off like missing limbs, sewn and housing phantoms.
And the mornings always snore in big green letters, today’s 6:45, but I manage to wave hello; my arms feel stirred like concrete and molasses.
I dig my fingers through my hair, debating pulling up and out, as the voices breathe and stir with birds. “Progress,” the sun debates with unimpressed and chimney skies, “it’s progress!” But I haven’t been faithful to the sun since I was ten pounds deeper, a spewing cavern of forevers. My bones slosh hypocrisy, and my knuckles ache for something metal.
I trudge snow-skinned through the drift of kitchen tiles, toenails painted white, my teeth blunt