I hate myself for equating harassment with attractiveness.
In the absence of both
I snap my own bra,
grope my ass in the darkest corner of the bar,
catcall myself, then leap from the driver's seat
and dive onto the sidewalk
just as the sound waves hit.
Over the last glowing ember in the gutter I roast
street pigeons and eat them whole,
crunch bones and beak between my loosening teeth
and floss with the quills until my gums bleed.
I name asphalt a napkin and
rub my palms on til they rash,
ruby pebbles of blood rising and filling the heart, head, life.
The clove soaked gauze is still deep in my jawbone
alongside every piece of gum I swallowed
lodged within the esophagus as
spackling into holes burnt
straight through from years swallowing dry pills.
I snake copper wires down the back of my throat and
remember at the very last second to tuck my left
thumb into my fist to suppress my gag reflex,
pray that this time I do not upend myself
like an overflowing trashcan in the middle of the night.