how to have a body.

my body is..

it looks nice

people like to look at it.

and sometimes

the looking

makes me feel alive.

but sometimes

it makes me invisible

and i can’t even see myself:

hips, newly grown

wider than the narrow

path, i squeeze through

between billy’s desk

and mine,

gone.

my bellybutton,

forever an okay body part,

gone.

my thighs,

forever poised

above my seat

a question hanging in the air,

gone.

my breasts,

that already

i make believe

have floated up to the

heavens,

(RIP tits)

are gone.

my toes,

which tiptoe downstairs

with my sister

to eat snacks

in the middle of the night,

have ripped silently off

my little feet,

gone.

and i look into his eyes,

which have seen almost

a decade longer

than my own,

disappeared glass balls,

and i see nothing

in them.

i see nothing.

i look down and i see

nothing

and when you don’t have

a body,

you’re so much more aerodynamic.

i float up up up and above

our heads

and away.

and when the darkness comes

and settles in my

not a belly,

fogging up over my

not eyes,

i don’t ask for help

because if

you don’t have a body,

how do you feel pain?