i dig a creek in my backyard and sit in it. i dump in baking soda

and some tea tree oil. i try to take off my dress and

the wet silk tears as i pull it over my shoulders. my clothes always end up like this:

in shreds. meanwhile, my hair is too short and thin to cover the burning mess;

smoke seeps from all gaps and clings sticky to my back.

in the midst of the smoulder, i disavow all acrylic nails and howl

for duller days. according to the internet,

homeopathic remedies will not fix the situation.

according to the internet, watched dough never rises. fidgeting,

i choose not to listen, drown myself in long skirts

and no underwear underneath, cross my fingers

for the wind to blow the infection away. this trailer-park curse,

this ancient floury malady. latch-legged, i sit in silence,

ask for redemption in the form 

of a clean kitchen. latch-legged, i face the window,

ask the sun to burn me a poultice. latch-legged,

i salute my habit of giving absolutely nothing

and expecting absolutely everything in return.