the way you see me

the way you see me

when i meet a man 
i often wonder why i call him a man
when later he’ll sit on that old couch
red but not really anymore
and say i’m a girl that he met earlier
a girl that seems too excited about shapes
in the sky
looking like different shapes
in the sky

and when i meet a man
i’ll notice his eyes wander
to the fabric on my chest
noticing not the slope of my skin
falling beneath the sweater’s edge
but instead seeing 
that absurd amount of dog fur
clinging to my belongings 
and eventually
my skin

he wonders the last time i did my laundry
whether i shave enough
or clean
at all

he knows i’m off
something unbalanced
i’m not like i should be
to him
perfectly poised
and clean
like a framed picture
or a corpse