billowing around--gray jellyfish
swimming my middle. They want edges
more defined than this goo.
Memories like baby babble--the stories
don't make sense; they're doused in my father's
drink. One's floating my heart right now--
jamming it up. Another's in my knee-joint,
keeping me from moving forward.
I ask the doctor for a monster
extraction, and she puts a mirror to my face;
that's her way to examine. In my green eyes
two tiny beings whom I remember and with whom
I plead to release me
into me. I pinch myself to find
a way in, to remember my skin is mine--not theirs
and not his. This skin isn't thin
and my bruises are few. The spots that are purple
and blue are beautiful--scatterings of twilight
sky, tiny galaxies.