fumes
my eyelids sun-greased but I’m not
really watching you blinds
slice lunchtime light bleaching
printer paper plates my body
everywhere you leave your
sour formalities flailing
& the vinegar bubbles up
your drainpipe throat eats
the lacquer off your smile
you want what you can’t halve &
maybe that’s why you blanch at
the sight of me living
I am turning the gaslights back up
foul-filling your face with
something acrid
the prickling of my scalp comes in
waves my legs cut through my skirt
I can gather up my breath again
my eyelids sun-greased but I’m not
really watching you blinds
slice lunchtime light bleaching
printer paper plates my body
everywhere you leave your
sour formalities flailing
& the vinegar bubbles up
your drainpipe throat eats
the lacquer off your smile
you want what you can’t halve &
maybe that’s why you blanch at
the sight of me living
I am turning the gaslights back up
foul-filling your face with
something acrid
the prickling of my scalp comes in
waves my legs cut through my skirt
I can gather up my breath again
Emily Murman is a poet and educator from Chicago. She holds a BA in Writing from Lake Forest College. Currently, she’s an MFA candidate at National University. Emily’s debut chapbook, SHRIVEL + BLOOM, is forthcoming via Dancing Girl Press in spring 2020. She can be found on Twitter @emilymurman.