Siri sets an alarm for twenty minutes. To shave
to scrub, to lather. Nick myself like a prize cut
season salt into the shank of my thigh. It stings, of course it does:
the kind of burn that blossoms. I slather the butter. Phone blings.
Cauterized, lubricated, ready.
One day I’ll be devastating. Hot enough to ruin dinner
a silence-starter, violence in vintage Gabbana.
Men, burning their lips on cigarettes
spilling the sauce, forgetting their wives. I won’t even notice.
Last year, cleanser broke me: fogged thoughts, red skin
it smelt like bleach and rose. The girls at Vogue loved it.
My pores felt like the problem. I scoured my face
read the reviews. Paid for the shipping.
Who doesn’t love to feel slutty and stupid? Five-inch heels
taut like Eva Longoria at the DNC. The devil’s slit lapping my thigh—blue lace.
He’ll tear the dress. Choke me, gently.
He’ll say: finally. The mirror will say I’m improving.
You have to work for it. Gym, injections, UV.
Wax, bleach, retinol. Serum. Oil.
Burn. Peel. Inject. Repair. Repeat.
Smoking. Salads. Starving.
My therapist says it’s enough.
I set the alarm. Twenty minutes. No cheating.
If it hurts, it works.
If it stops hurting
I’ll try something else.
