My hands feel so light,
not enough weight in them.
I don’t dream about the blood
anymore.
Stomach too flat, not round enough,
not four months. I forced myself to
gain fifteen pounds. I thought maybe
that’ll make up for what isn’t inside.
When the moon is full I think
about children, Aldehyde, and Etelvina.
I stay awake with my own agony.
These stretchmarks
on my hips are a broken lullaby.
Who do I sing it out to
when I’m feeling lonely?
