I’m about as female as a blood clot or bubblegum.

I always want something bad to happen.

How selfish, I know, but we all think it.

I start watching live camera feeds online. 

I’m interested only in ones from Ukraine 

but I’m scared I’ll see my mother. 

I don’t know why—

why I’m scared

why I think I’ll recognize my mother 

why I’m telling you this.

I find razorblades repulsive but not as much as babies.

If I can convince myself I’m dying, I’m dying

and I’ll go guzzling 

smoke & hyaluronic. 

Coughing hurts the alter ego I left in seventh

grade algebra with up-skirt shots of Kate Moss.

I’ve gone through three rib cages since.

This one is titanium, installed

after my father’s third near-death experience.

I heave like a horse in hopes 

it will spark like flint an argument.

I close my eyes and know exactly

the perimeter of affected tissue.

I’ve a steady hand.

I’ve an unsteady gag reflex.

I could impale myself

with the perfect-diameter tube, serrated and

gouge a floating gap 

between neck and body. 

I’m already dead 

from the neck down—a party

trick for the virtual age. 

I could customize the instrument

like a strap-on too perfect

for a soon-to-be-widowed orifice

or a goblin shark’s jaw—

both easily dislodged. I promise 

you, Reader, I won’t go 

rogue. I have high hopes

for a virtual age installment of rapture.

I like miscellaneous best.

I’d clean outside my windows if it would change your mind.

I’d steady one foot on shelving and another on your chest.

Am I crushing you? 

Do you want me to?
 

I mistake small dogs for infants in my peripherals.

I’ve already told you how I feel about babies.

I’ve noticed a lot of small dogs on YouTube.

Some dogs are rather ugly—

you can tell when a dog was a clown

in a past life. 

I advise against yearning, specifically

star-yearning. Specifically,

if you’re afraid of kidney stones.

The archive is incomplete but has already recorded

how I wax and wane in front of a floor-

length mirror. It’s the dance I do best

with myself.

I dream a zipper materializes on my back 

but I can’t reach it.

At least I don’t exist

at the intersection of art and technology.