my roman nose did not
fit the cupboard womb
as I stared at
the silhouette
of a ketchup stain on
a breakfast table
raw burger meat,
ripe debutantes
all bathed in
glycerin and
self-destruction
waiting for teeth
or the occasional knife
I pressed
against
the greasy
diner table
arms crossed
to hide my face behind
a promise to be
waiting for it
open mouthed
and mute
chiaroscuro, blind