looking in--wood beams lie flat along the ceiling
i look flat when i look at me the way i am not supposed to look at me
like i am perched upon a wood beam on the ceiling
like i am a cameraman, or an evaluator, or a lover
i transform, wax, but moving
remembering the cues, the lines, the x's
looking in-- cushions hunch the arch of my back
i am full and curved and dimensional in disturbing ways
i am perched on the wood but i can hardly continue my gaze
things are puffed and jutting in ways that bring disgust
even words spill out in asynchronous patterns
and i wonder who the fuck is guiding this sorry woman.
looking out-- nothing to recount.