You take apart your skin and fold

it into squares. You sew

the pieces together and hang

it out to dry. The summer sings

a song while you wait. You pair yourself with shoes

and a red dress. Two layers on

one. When you go to sleep and the red dress is gone

and your quilt is on your dresser, your heart

beats to the sound of your hairdryer. Off

and on while your mother uses it to show how much she still

loves you.

You go back to the time where you thought you

were temporary. You look down and realize

that time is now, and yet

your words are permanent in someone else’s

stomach. They ate them up

in sharpie and cardboard.

You clap your hands when the sun rises

and the sun sets again. You push

the light up and down, ready to rise when you’re ready

to rise. Shallow breaths.

You live in faded pictures and your father’s

back pocket, where

a coin you gave him when

you were ten

still sits

among his change.

You cry. You swallow bits of language

that you think you’d say again, but

choose not to.

You laugh too loud and

laugh again, trying

to love yourself underwater. Your socks are wet

and you dance in them

until your toes poke through the holes and

one layer starts breaking.

You smile when magic convinces you, illusion in the form of I

love you and a hug that could’ve been more. You frown

when you let yourself down, which is always

and never not. You never knot

your sweatshirt strings and that’s why they slide right through

in your sleep.

You sleep a lot and in

your dreams you see a future

that you are terrified of. When you wake up, you are happy

it hasn’t happened yet. You put on your skin

and your red dress, the heels you never took off. The socks

in the dryer with your mother. They both always come out breaking,

with holes in them, one

layer exposed.

The squares on you take the form of a person

who is temporary but whose words are digested.

Shallow breaths.

The night and day are stuck

in your left and right armpits.

You flash them both

when you hug someone who lied

about loving you.

It’s simple, living with a wet sock

and a truth.

You speak words and watch

as the world

swallows.