I look down,
in the sun I see my hands.
I don’t recognize
the freckles splayed across them.
I don’t like
looking down.
I also hate the sun.
.
~
.
In the shower.
.
I look down,
I see my feet.
.
I look down,
I see my legs.
.
I look down,
I see my stomach.
.
I look down,
I imagine nothing.
.
In the dimmed light,
I don’t see the freckles on my hands
raised to my neck.
.
~
.
Nothing takes the shape
of bands of cloth.
I don’t use wires
anymore.
Wires trace
the outline
and force me,
to look down.
.
The bands of cloth,
can’t be too tight or loose,
I have to reach,
the perfect level of unawareness
to imagine
nothing.
.
I can wear nothing at all
on nothing
as long as I don’t
look down.
.
~
.
If I don’t look down,
I can pretend nothing is there.
I can pretend,
my freckly hands,
don’t feel nothing.
I can pretend,
I can’t feel my sweat,
born from the sun.
Oh how I hate the sun.
.
The heat makes
me feel
my outline,
my weight,
myself,
and shows me
my shadow,
where there are
no
gaps.
