I store my breasts in a box at night.
Left one, right one, upside down one.
Sometimes upside down for days at a time.
I once dreamt of rolling over in bed at night
And then the weeping would come.
But ironically, it happened when I couldn’t-
A different matter entirely.
Sometimes it seems the dream is nothing more than anxious rebellion.
Aged, balding men with their pot bellies and stick legs haunt my mind.
It’s almost amusing, my barren chest.
I also wonder about self consciousness- the irreparable harm it does to the soul.
Deeper still, it has been a long time since we met in this place.
I mount my lover’s soul, attempting to spread my wings with pride.
In darkness we express the musings of love,
But even the slightest touch of light reminds me of their reckless abandon.
Like an angel that has fallen from a glorious heaven
In wingless despair my fetal heart weeps.
The water is indeed too deep
So I jump out with a shiver, somehow intended to shake off the tragedy at hand.
If I keep it in a box, my determination remains intact.
Just to make sure it stays shut, I tie it neatly with a bow-
The thought of the snail, slimy slug of a creature
Leaving behind a residue evidence of it’s path
Is all that connects me to my cancerous box.
