Do Not Soften Your Edges It Only Makes You Easier to Consume
Everything you’ve heard about me
is true. I won’t worship
that which wants to wipe me clean—
I’m always clean.
I am not a nice girl,
and I don’t want to hook up in your basement,
watch you loosen my pith
moan while I vacate
until I’m the ceiling.
Your boyfriend is a vegetarian
who eats chicken when he’s drunk
and loves Murakami.
Your dad hates the sound of your mother’s breath
while she sleeps with her legs crossed.
Your son will be loose hands in your purse,
your lingerie habit,
your unsent high school suicide note,
and yes the world has teeth
and a stomach full of acid.
You who was beautiful and hides candy
in the sock drawer. You who pray in the same bed
you sex in. You want roundness. You seek
permission and bite your nails.
Every coin in the pond you swore to
is an alibi of goodness.
OLIVIA TREYNOR is a Barnard College student from the upper half of California. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Cutbank, Yemassee, phoebe journal, and elsewhere. She loves lakes but is scared of the ocean.