I am the white wash her,
blending in with the walls.
Not tall or broad,
you can fit me
onto a flat hand
like a saucer
a receptor
passive, nice.

I will meet you
with a quiet smile,
my fat hard teeth
under wraps
beneath thin lips
that were once
expansive,
the color of wine
a dog’s underbelly.

My voice
once drowsy
tipsy
spinning
on its own
laughter,
is now straight as seam.
Struggles to fit
in the needle,
pin hole kind of love.
The kind of love
that gets tired
of trying to fit
in itself.

I am the wife material
the grocer was waiting for,
I stock the shelves
with my new self.
I cross my ring finger
until all my fingers
are ringed
fingers.
Chained up
self, I am the newest self.

All my past selves have been
given fake names and sent off.
Sometimes, in the dark
my new self gets mistaken
for spotless sheets,
making it wish
it crept into the getaway car
with the others