Each membrane: a fish—
living and lithe between fingers,
every wave: a tiny aquarium about to spill,
Hello, how are you?
I am fine, waiting for my turn
to do something,
to become the next greatest thing:
skinny jeans, iced coffee, music on vinyl.
I don’t know why I’m here.
Each piece of misplaced hair, a tentacle,
growing into tumors—
every glance in the mirror: a horror show.
I am alone in this white shark of a place,
touching myself to make certain I exist:
everyone here swims with others,
while I wish my whole body would turn to stone
as I look at myself.