All night I am ugly, wryneck whore, fantastic misshape.
I cannot stop eating or the eyes,
shut and measured in gloating.
Walked convulsive to a bedroom you know

better, demanded proper attentions. What in a waist is to be proud of?
When I was fat you were fine
and now I am indistinct: systolic hysteric, weak

even to the corner to the train, sure I will be stalled and gassed,
that there should be value in a death.
What has passed came trying to rise from cement,

might have carried us steamy
both with sturdier legs.
I will lay down with you, I will get up with you. And then just a day again,
small scratches from the testing

of knives to my flesh, the endless face-scrubbing
with will not to waste these pretty years. Something like folly has infected my blood;
I imagine my life

would change with a girl’s given name. Heading somewhere on a street of strangers
put to bump and suffocate,
I cannot realise the evolution of this act.

I must have walked because I am still walking.