I destroy my imperfections with methodical, practiced precision.
In the mirror.
Face to face with the witching hour.
I swallow them whole like oysters in the moonlight,
ripe and swollen.

I strike when I am the least opaque.
Which is, of course, when no one else is looking.
My belly swells to fullness with my mollusk sorrows
and all the ways I hide them.
I admire its roundness, and caress its crescent shape.

I am alone on this plane, with my hands,
Where every night I digest and birth myself
in endless cycle.
Until morning.
Daily, I reteach myself my own history in pictures
And try to remember how to love.