poem

I’m a bit lost: eye is swollen, face seems lost.

If I don’t look fertile, pretty, or cute, how can I write?

Books around me suggest I have learned a lot.

It’d be a bad poem if I continued,

But he makes me feel fuzzy, wet, or soft, like a leaf.

It’s always a “he” making me feel fuzzy, wet, soft, like a leaf.

I had sex with my father in the dream, it was normal.

I felt successful, I felt I had reached the pinnacle of dreams.

I had had an orgasm before the dream, and before the walk.

And the traffic lights were beautiful, everything seemed nice.

I said if I came every time I had sex, every time I’d happily go home.

But my right eye is swollen and for this reason alone I cannot wake or sleep.

My eyes look more battered than swollen: I’ve worked hard, I’m infertile.

It’s true: I came for the fourth time with a man and now I’m infertile.

Still looking at my eyes. Maybe I look vulnerable?

Is this an essay in understanding why I can’t wake up?

Is this an essay in understanding why I dreamt the dream?

I feel ugly, so I can’t write (but I write while I feel ugly).

Something’s dissolving—I bought a carbonated drink.