how to take up space (a letter to myself)
sketch yourself a silhouette, slick and two-dimensional,
ink black and slippery-small, meant for shadows and corners.
step inside, curling your fingers and your toes,
let it snap you up, wrap you up like liquid, and wait to fade away.
put clothes on or take some off;
flex your muscles and twist your wrists.
watch it bubble on your flesh and burn and blister.
pick at it and peel it back.
your skin shines through in freckles first
and people glance at you, stepping out of your way.
one day the sunset doesn’t sink inside you, like you aren’t a black hole,
like you are matter, and matter,
the way your fingernails sink into outline.
sketch yourself a silhouette and keep it like a costume.
smile politely and step inside, zip it up around you.
watch it struggle to contain you, your blistering flesh,
choking on your curves and spitting out your lines.