In a room the size of a tennis ball,

I turn off the light. Feeling brave,

 

I stare into night’s swath. My inability

to whistle knows me best, my inability

 

to convince a hundred men

to love me. Morning frightens

 

me even more than the sun’s

giant disappearance. I try to be good.

 

I drink my water. I run my laps. I grow

my nakedness. A fan is turned on.

 

I am cold and, though not covered

in water, feel damp. Somebody walks

 

through the bedroom door – your body

enters, naked as my own. I wish

 

I could say this startles me, but I still know

your body too well. Every dusk, I find

 

myself burrowing beneath my blanket,

envisioning your hands

 

around the jarring craters

of my abdomen. This is not the life

 

I want. Sitting at my desk, eyeing

the unforgiving peak of womanhood,

 

my hands fold into themselves

like a choir. I still try to be good.

 

I picture your chest against my own

and blot out the image with some rain.

 

I advocate for my own disappearance –

like rain, I am only rain.