This is for every boy
who ever picked me
last for basketball. I’m lying
flat as a fish on the floor
of the fast train
your apartment becomes
when you press your foot
into my face.

This is for every therapist
who ever asked me
if I’d made a plan. My plan
was to not get locked up
by answering that question.
I’m practicing mindfulness
outside Sonic
in a pink skirt and skates.

This is for A.A. and every other
church I ditched
for my people, the dirtbags.
This is for the dirtbags,
my people. This is for every winter
I hated and every summer
I wasted. I’m the glitter
rubbing off. I’m one thin dime.

This is for my enlarged prostate.
This is for the boy you fucked
with the stupid tattoo. I’m a motion-
activated singing fish on the wall.
You’re a Budweiser lampshade
above a pool table, color-coding
hard men bent across the felt. I flap
my thick wet fish lips and you go dark.