in the Buster’s bathroom, staring
straight into my own eyes while
my friend pisses and drunk girls knock.
I look so much like my mother the mirror
startles me. My bones have always been
heavier than hers. Mood stabilizer bloat.
Impossible hunger. Stoned all the time.
Stretch marks and signs of fight.
I’m trying to eat the peaches
before they mold, to freeze the bananas
before they bruise. We kiss early
in the night, before the room starts
spinning. I taste the heat of her sunburn,
box fan blaring, back arched.
I keep waiting for the sweet to spoil,
to wake up in the grass because the party
was too much. A guy at the bar told me
it’s almost impossible to be killed by a train.
That if it happens, it’s really your fault.