It’s not a statement, just laziness
that lets these small strands 
sheet-music my skin—what if 
I skip the trip to the bathroom, 
chin pressed into chest as I pick 
away at my breast with a tweezer. 
Once I was hungry for pink donuts 
and sweet potato fries and sugar 
cereal, and now I’m hungry for 
pink donuts and sweet potato fries 
and sugar cereal and everything else. 
What if only surrender can redeem 
insatiability? I can’t keep living 
on the knife edge between stuffed 
and full. I want to collective-noun 
my desire, part my life like a labia
and jaywalk across prayer. Instead 
of give me roses, spill red wine 
across my carpet; instead of 
hold the car door open, drive me 
off a cliff. All this because for once 
I do nothing? Who knows. Maybe 
next time I’ll flash the camera—
like a flock of geese I’ll take off my shirt.