Each morning I watch my form reflected

in the mirror. Tilting and puckering,

she blinks on my command.


What mother, what God could have been so careless

as to entrust me with a body? She came to me like soil

to a bulb; in her bones I grew a mind.


Now, I am certain I will murder her.

In the silence of glass, her flaws prickle

like crabgrass. Their stems thicken by the hour.


I imagine what it would take to turn over

this soil, expose the roots, matted like veins

between patches of nerve cells—


Wax & crash diets, that new chemical

fire they sell in magazines.

Sear, rinse, repeat.