24, and I, ill-fed,
wear red-wine lipstick, an ideal stain,
sipping so it only coats the tongue.
Teeth cannot taste, but, like fat, facilitate
feeling. It’s gotten hard to run from home,
my skeleton pulling towards the open keyhole.
The fat has leaked out of my face and hands, settling into the back
of my arms, between my legs, in rings around my hips,
expanding my shy stomach and chest. Wine is for these swelling arcs.
The backs of my arms have prickles, dull purple dots.
24, and this is my ugliest, most beautiful body.
Won’t you forget
most of what I’ve said?
Focused on the butter between the skin and muscle I am
presently estranged from,
I want to say I feel less
than I ever thought I would,
but my body craves fat and fat