forever fascinated by the poster of everything
ever wrong with an eye:
snuffed lantern, cat-like mutation, cataract
in the river sense of the word—
i haven’t cried in months. my head is a stable
for dumb horses with their heads down.
over and over someone teaches me
that pigs are carnivorous;
you can get an apple in every season
except for macintosh.
my skin is so sweet and thin
anyone could bite right through me.
and i keep stuffing my wrists in
people’s mouths right when i meet them,
like a man on the street with a clipboard,
do you have a moment to talk
about my trauma? everything gets
to be a metaphor for the body
when i’m sad like this. the eye doctor
tells me i’m tall for a girl
and clicks through blurry
versions of the world. tell me
which is better. i try too hard
to tell the two apart.