I masturbate in my childhood bedroom to a video called

“harry styles shutting down toxic masculinity for three minutes straight.”

I do it under the covers because my curtains are and always have been sheer.

I wonder if my vibrator is a sign that I’m growing up even though I see

high-school-fifteen-cuts-on-her-sleeve-fragile-bodied Amelia in the medicine cabinet mirror

The need to do something with myself, to roll up my sleeves and live up to my promise(s).

I can’t admit anything to the people who love me.

Upstairs is all wishing I could play the piano and

waiting for my mom to finish her makeup so we can go to the store.

I don’t know how to make myself when

home is so stagnant and potential is so past.

It is always sewn-lipped-binge-drinking Amelia in my shower,

and my boyfriend’s dad still calls me Mia.

My mother’s laugh is full and bloated,

even when it’s fake, something buoyant but controlled.

I feel like straw,

blown in the wind of old cravings,

without direction.

It’s always Christmas in the downstairs bathroom:

(pine-scented soap and a dim, golden lightbulb)

A home like fly traps.