Each morning I watch my form reflected
in the mirror. Tilting and puckering,
she blinks on my command.
What mother, what God could have been so careless
as to entrust me with a body? She came to me like soil
to a bulb; in her bones I grew a mind.
Now, I am certain I will murder her.
In the silence of glass, her flaws prickle
like crabgrass. Their stems thicken by the hour.
I imagine what it would take to turn over
this soil, expose the roots, matted like veins
between patches of nerve cells—
Wax & crash diets, that new chemical
fire they sell in magazines.
Sear, rinse, repeat.