I Guess By Now I Thought I’d Be Done With Shame

but I opened my coat to prove a point

and kept coming home with colds.

I thought I was done stuffing fists

in my mouth to mute the sound.

Done lying about what trails my throat

had charted. I practiced looking tall

men in the eye, spoke loudly,

pronounced every ‘R.’

I chopped wood at midnight.

I left the shower and kept

singing. I sang about my body

like I was proud. I was proud.

I was – My legs churned the poolwater.

I clamped silicone and didn’t cry.

Learned the names of oils. Asked

for another finger. I cried. Swore

to drown before saying sorry.

I sang about my death

like I was over it. Ground

my face into the soil, like I was ready

to shave it off. I stopped shaving.

Told a joke in the voice of a stupid

girl. I waved a flag of my own bones.

I threw my sordid liver at a man –

think fast – then acted surprised,

again, when he caught it in his teeth.

Not everyone who speaks this way

is lying. Somewhere,

there is a version of me that isn’t neck-

deep in her invented filth.

Somewhere a woman is walking

barefoot through the woods,

trailing white linen, walking without

a dog snapping at her heels.

Both of us are singing.

Both of us are bragging

in the past tense.

One of us is still here.

That much, I guess,

at least, is true.