when i was 10 years old,
my friends and i would play a game
as we waited in the cafeteria line for lunch.
curving the length
of our fingers into a cul-de-sac, we, hooking
them to our waists, would ration
our fat. the bones in our pointer and thumb
were solid enough to become our human tape
measure, serrated
with an accuracy that only flesh
to flesh contact could swallow.
under the fluorescents, we understood
that whatever fell inside
our translucent flap of skin was
semi-divine.
everything else was aberrant.
it had to be notched inside a pair of jeans,
sawed into oversized sweaters –
cutlets of me were not allowed
to exist.
my body has done nothing else besides
allow me to fold into myself and be soft
when my exoskeleton cracks . . .
but even now,
my fingernails still can’t help but slice
into my hipsneckchinthighs.
i am a butcher carrying their own shop
but i can never sell my meat,
and am instead left to rot.
