Like a hoodie I wear my disordered thoughts, clutching
a crystal rumored to take away my toxins.
My god, the nerve.
Pour more wine over the whiskey, pretend it’s a vinegar tonic 
while I snitch on the neighbor, his smoke rising.
Straight up I don’t feel bad about it.
What I feel is jacked
having swallowed this dumb little sun
for months shaping me like a loaf. I didn’t know
it would grow me softer. Now
when a silo is passed, I think family.
There’s something dirty in the knot of me.
Why do I worry a stranger doesn’t see me
as small? Just see me at all.
I could’ve been gone a million times.