day twenty six

sometimes i wait to love myself at the bus stop but nothing ever shows to pick me up. so there i go, by foot, to elsewhere, anywhere. in all of my self-portraits i draw me with fangs—dulled and dormant, of course. i desperately make it known i’m squirmish prey, a test of what gentleness i can summon outside of myself. belly and soft canines exposed, i make a hypothesis: if someone else can handle me with care, then maybe i am worth the diligence and devotion of skincare and sweeping. and they are not the only ones witnessing the person i become under different lights. the awe of it all. i’m just waiting for me to witness too.