Empty boxes replace the space
Where my body should be
In a bed marred by ink stains and
Cereal crumbs and undedicated keys.
Poured out, sliced open, turned inside out
And on Saturday my deserted exoskeleton
Will be swaddled in ink-smeared sheets and sweat.
Old makeup smears itself into the corners of
Rumpled pillowcases and mascara clouds
Float across each throw pillow—a staircase
toed by tears in the midday sun of Sunday.
My desk is decked with expired 10mgs spread
Along the surface and a bottle of juice I have
Justified as food to last the whole weekend. Socks
lounge on the floor like dead snakes—curling around
the bedframe and my nightstand and my feet
I will look at the window and cry for the wind
Seasoned by the sun, but I will have no substance,
No meat to take me there. I will pour juice
Down my throat like pumping gas.
My feet are ripped open; I claw at them in my sleep
And crawl around on bloodied soles.
I will not leave my bed tomorrow.
The boxes will have been flung on the ground.
is a fourth-year undergraduate student at the University of Idaho, where she studies Education and English with minors in Spanish and Creative Writing. Her work can be found in The Looking Glass, The Albion Review, Thistle, and Vandalism, among other undergraduate literary publications.