Growing In

On boring days

I flash the neighbours.

The twenty-year-old

across the street

doesn’t seem to mind.

He flirts

while I walk the dog—

Crocs on his feet,

that dopey pube stache grin.

Tapered sweats,

too small

to hide

the eggplant.

Maybe

that’s the point.

I’d never

fucking touch him.

Not in real life.

I always liked

the ones

who didn’t

follow trends.

But I like

the attention.

Even if it

feels hollow

by the time

I hit the driveway.

And maybe

he does too.

I used to be

something.

I used to

love art.

Now I get angry

dusting

the same landscapes—

no closer than

my living room.

My husband likes

to remind me

how I used to fuck

like a bad girl

underneath the sun.

His friends used to have

group chats

dedicated

to the bathing suits

I wore

in the summer heat.

Like I was

supposed to

never degrade—

only bloom

for the love

of a man.

Now I have

a favourite spatula

and trade

in Rae Dunn

collectibles.

I used to

believe in

uprisings

and pixelated dreams

pasted to

a poster board.

Like I was

supposed to

grow up.

But instead,

I’m growing in.

A muzzle to wear

over that pretty

filthy mouth,

a tiny, beaded noose

from a craft kit

kept high

in the cupboard,

a fading light

kept alert by

a persistent

electronic tether—

all it’s good for is to check the weather.

(all it’s good for is to check the weather)

But the sky

ain’t blue today,

as I lie

in a top-tier bed,

scrolling the weather app

that freezes every time

I try to track the storm,

sobbing into a silk pillowcase

in the two-million-dollar house

I’ll probably

waste away in.