by Bri Watts


I placed my feet
on the couch,

right ankle over left –
second toe longer than the first,
skinny and stretched, smelling
slightly of vinegar.

my hands beneath my head,
elbows pointing in opposite
directions, hair connecting
my arms and shoulders,
breasts quarrelling, fighting
to get as far away from one another
as possible – I asked you,

do you think I’m repulsive?

you said no, with a sheen of fear
plastered on your face of anything
near you being rotten. when I ask you,

do you find me repulsive?

wipe romance from the corner
of your eyes, lick the crusted
politeness off your lips and breathe.
see me as I see myself.

I don’t want to hear that to you,
I am wonderful. I want you to know

that I know that I am repulsive.

that I am akin to the taste
of cheap, hot beer, and brie cheese,
with and without honey, next to
a bloody tampon and runny shit.

tell me, “I can’t stand you”.

and come back every morning
to have breakfast with me.

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