funhouse
I want to hear the wind flying through my bones,
through the rhombus-shaped crevices of the five
o’clock shadows beneath my arms and the sliver
of sunlight and pavement slipping through my legs like
silky wine at dusk. I do not want to sag and crinkle like
a week-old balloon, do not want pigeons cooing at me, pecking
at my elastic cheeks. It is in good fun to poke and prod at me,
but when I am alone and I feel cold despite the hot spotlight
burning through my skin like searing oil, is it a carnival? When I
look at the mirror and notice that it is tall and skinny like a latte
from a place I avoid, is it a carnival? It is when your eyes are made from the
same glass as funhouses.
there is drought
there is drought here.
like calloused hands, it is dry and showing cracks.
parched hands, parched mouth.
that must be why he is so thirsty.
but didn’t he get the memo
that I am not a well?
he sprinkles compliments,
thinking that I will lap them up.
thinking it is some sort of magic dust
that will soften the blow.
his rancidity burns me,
but it seems to light him up
and take him far, far away
to a land with no social conventions,
no etiquette, free to comply to his
every whim.
there is drought here,
and I wish to escape.