Gregor Samsa Redux

I do not recognize the body

watching me. I pull up

 

my boxers and pretend I could

wear high-waisted pants, as if

the telltale bulge wasn't there.

 

What am I if not a clay doll

in the oven? A mockery

of a man. 

 

I can only glare back through

the windowpane and

pretend my eye contact

 

still has worth. When I step

outside, the first moment

is a migraine. My eyes maladjusted

 

to the thin atmosphere. Meteorologists

call this light pollution because they do

not understand how a skyline could

 

be dysphoric. The stars, stripped

away by runny ochre paint, will

turn into dust specks &

 

we will squint harder

towards the sky. &

 

the ceramic mannequins

will rejoice at their lack

of eyes. & I will find another

inanimacy to be jealous of.

One day I will learn how to be.

But not soon.

Alrisha Shea is a 17 year old student going into Bioinformatics in undergrad. They can be observed in their natural habitat @alrisha_s on Twitter. Their work is published or forthcoming in Outlook Springs, Crab Fat Magazine, Dirty Paws Poetry, and others. Their chapbook, "Cicada Girl / Locust Boy" is forthcoming from corrupt press.

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