Screw You All Who Are Complete

Normally, I'd snap pics right now
through my computer,
like pausing life in a mirror,
but that computer is broken.
 
No pic, then, can show me here
bathtub-swimming in the
sliver bracelet he bought me 
one anniversary he was home from the army.
 
My hair’s tied up, the sides sliding out--
if I had the pic, I'd send it to an 
online friend so someone 
could appraise me as beautiful.  
 
I soak my stomach.  It’s cramped for four days,
breasts pumped with sore blood for seven.
 
That other man is out right now
with someone else. 
But he’s sorry. 
 
I slept next to his tattoos last night. 
I’ll hold his t-shirt tonight
and buy him three packs of cigarettes tomorrow. 

 

 

Sledgehammer Lit, August 2021