I used to fuck in a cardigan
to avoid being repulsed by my arms.
If you ever want to feel exposed,
flay yourself in front of a lover
with the exception of an insecurity cardigan.
I had a booger wall
for much longer than appropriate.
(As if that’s ever proper etiquette.)
In bed I’d wipe all my crusties and slimies
behind the headboard on the wall.
I still gnaw at my dirty nails obsessively
like a dog who found a thorn in their paw.
I spit them like sunflower seeds
into heaps behind the couch,
or on the floorboard of my car,
the spaces of infinite possibilities.
I floss my teeth with a string
from the seam of my baby blanket
or a strand of someone’s stray hair.
We are all disgusting, cringey beings.
Our flesh, shielded from the world entirely
by trillions of crawling bacteria.
Somehow still, we blush.
We hide our secrets
in our lint filled belly buttons
the way I tuck a tampon up my sleeve.
In the stall, I unwrap it delicately.
So cautious not to be discovered.
How embarrassing to bleed.
How revolting to be human.