i've been
filling
myself
with sand
with sand
with sand

in Nordstroms at the Cherry Creek Mall
in Denver, I tried on a gold dress that didn't
fit around my hips (but not many things do,
including your arms or your eyes or your
honesty) and the dressing room attendant
didn't bother to knock before unlocking the
door to tell me that this particular room
wasn't for me, and her eyes, particularly
her boho hat, made me feel like slime,
like a wet body bag, like a sweaty
creature that crawled out from
beneath the hot stones in canon
city and I eagerly shuffled out of
the hall with the gold dress that didn't
fit around my hips (because nothing does)
and the for the rest of the day I saw myself
fitting my skin over inanimate objects and wishing
I could be beautiful.

I haven't been honest.


Chaz only sends me snaps of
bunched rosettas, I want to tell
him, move your pitcher back
as the stacks form so that you
get a more elongated pour
but I don't want to deter him
from correlating steamed milk
and espresso with my name, so
I don't. And he has a new girlfriend
now with slim fingers and defined nostrils
that make me think of Audrey Hepburn, so
at first I tried to insert myself into their bubble
to be a part of their happiness or maybe just
Audrey's beautifully sculpted features. But
to be honest I stopped talking to him
back in May or March because we had
this sort of thing that I didn't know
how to handle and so many girls
had handled his **** since then,
since me, that nothing felt like
it held any concrete significance,
pursuing whatever it was that I
was pursuing, would not make
me feel any more whole, which
was what I was aiming for.

hush now
how can
you stand
the noise
you've put in
our ears please
just come
home