keep ringing your bell.
maybe it’s real to me now.
today while i was tying a bow around the waistline of a mannequin, an overly excited woman tilted her head to the side, and with a side smile declared i looked adorable in my outfit with my “little baby bump!”
i think the reaction she was looking for was far inside me still, quieted and pushed down deep.
my face flushed and i could feel the heat spreading like volcanic ivy from my neck and then branch up through my face. i knew she could see the red and “you will find you don’t need to be as nervous as you think!”
well fuck, i am.
today it became real, because now strangers are trying to find seconds of joy with me while i am rustling through a lifetime of letters to my mother. track marks and false starts, the white powder stuffed in mittens—stuffed in jackets and pant pockets. shampoo bottles mixed with wine bottles mixed with pill bottles and role models, for me.
mine are burned to ash. counting relapses with every rib coming through, waiting for you.
