BODY HORROR

HERE’S THE GUMS STUCK PURPLE,
            DYED FROM MOUTHFULS
            OF INDULGENT FROSTING STUFFED
            DOWN THE RIBBON OF WET THROAT
            UNTIL BURSTING,
AND A CONDITIONER SCENT
            THAT TELEPORTS SIX MONTHS AGO,
            SUDDENLY SHOWERING
            IN SOMEONE ELSE’S HOME,
            THE MELON YELLOW,
            SALLOW BUZZING LIGHT
            SCRAPING THE CAVITY FILLED
            WITH YOUR EYEBALLS

YOU LEAVE THE BATHROOM AND FIND
            THE BED FINALLY BREAKING
            UNDER TEN YEARS OF WEIGHT,
            THE FRAME CRACKED AS BRITTLE LEAVES,
            THE SLATS HOLDING THE MATTRESS
            BUCKLING UNDER A BODY
            THAT HAS GROWN GIGANTIC.
IN THE HOUSE THAT
            HELD THE WEIGHT OF YOU,
            GREEDY AS YOU WERE,
            ABSOLVED YOU AND
            DABBED YOUR UPPER LIP AND
            TUCKED IN YOUR GLUTTONY.

HERE’S THE GUILT,
            SEEPING THROUGH CRACKED CUTICLES,
            THE TIGHT DRUM OF SKIN TOUCHED
            FLICKERING IN MEMORY AT
            THE SIGHT OF THE HANGED FLOWERS,
            LOLLING BLOOD RED HEADS
            AND SNAPPED SPINES,
            FUZZY WITH DANDELION MOLD,
A GIFT FROM YEARS AGO,
            THAT YOU, SELF-PROCLAIMED
            “MEMORY HOARDER,”
            REFUSE TO UNSPOOL FROM THE
            NAIL ON YOUR WALL.

HERE’S CLOSE AIR THAT STARTLES YOU
            WHEN ITS FINGERS CARESS YOU
            ON THE BACK OF YOUR NECK,
            VIOLENCE IN THE CAREFUL COMFORT,
A TERROR YOU CONFESS
            YOU DO NOT KNOW THE ORIGINS OF,
            INSTINCTUAL AND VISCERAL,
            A JUMP THAT SPURS
            IN THE BACKS OF YOUR THIGHS.

HERE’S SEDIMENT, CRUMBS, EVIDENCE
            SCATTERED ON A TAUGHT TOP-SHEET
            CRAWLING ON YOU,
            ITCHING, IMPOSSIBLY.
THE RING YOU THOUGHT WAS STOLEN
            WEDGED IN THE LINING OF A GOLD CLASP BAG.
            YOU’LL TRY TO FORGIVE YOURSELF
            AND YOU’LL FIND NOTHING IN IT,
            JUST A HALF-EMPTY BOX
            LINED WITH ALL THE
            TIMES YOU EVER
            MADE SOMEONE ELSE CRY.
YOUR FINGERS STILL FIT IT,
            YET YOU’VE GROWN SO LARGE

IT’S NEVER PRECISELY THE SAME.
            TODAY THERE’S A DISTORTED IMAGE
            IN THE CHEAP,
            WALL HANGING MIRROR.
            YOU ARE TRYING TO FORCE RESEMBLANCE
            TO SOMEONE YOU ONCE SAW IN A PHOTOGRAPH,
            A GIRL NOT SO BLOATED WITH
            THE UNCOMFORTABLE,
            INSECT CRAWL
            KICKING LIKE A FETUS
            INSIDE HER.
A PERSON WHO IS MUCH SMALLER
            WHEN LEFT NAKED AND OPEN,
            WHEN THE CLOTHES ARE SCATTERED
            ACROSS THE HARDWOOD AND COVERING
            EVERYTHING                        BUT THE BODY.

Sofia Catanzaro is a junior at Smith College, studying creative writing and film. She spends much of her time between Northampton, Massachusetts, and New York, where she was born. She is a two-time recipient of a Scholastic Art & Writing award, both for her poetry and her prose. She has been previously published in Rookie, Teen Ink, and The Fieldston LP. Her work primarily focuses on human connection, family, and the many forms that love can come in.