There is plenty to regret. The cigarette tilted
!50! in a china-blue ashtray. The little smudge
of lipstick on my teeth. How I stare like a buckshot
!50! target into the camera, my hair flipped like mare’s
tail. How everything about me is asking.
!50! This is a fossil of me ossified into a half-moon
grabbing at my ankles, my two fig nipples reaching
!50! out like the arms of a tired child. Look
at my breasts and the ways they can be used
!50! against me. The way he still has me
flat, malleable, wearing a younger face,
!50! able to be uploaded. The inexhaustible resource
of my body spread out onto his skull-colored bed. A virus
!50! eating itself from the inside out. The smallness
between my legs pixilated. It is my own shape
!50! that I am afraid of. The weapon
of my body, how it points back at itself