He thinks I like it because I’m smiling.
The expression slides oilily,
slicker than water, something chemical
& porous & unreal.
It’s sliding off my face and I’m sliding off of my-
self. My voice echoes a soundscape.
Each movement shifts the latticework
of my bones. Hollows me out,
digs a tunnel straight up to the heart of me.
His face is smiling too, but beneath
it is like mine, and beneath it is mine:
vile & violent, sharp like acid
and I’m no realer than a dream.
