girl shudders

at every roll of thunder

trapped in the space between her knees.

she wants to fight

the storm, to be the storm.

to be more than this, but not

more—just lighter.

girl mourns herself

before she is.

she does not know how to

picture herself outside of a mirror,

and if it weren't bad luck, she would break the glass.

she swallows it instead,

lets her gums

bleed. girl is tooth-rot.

girl holds air in the palm of her hand

and takes rain into her mouth

like communion.

girl tells mirror how it’s not

that she doesn’t want this.

she likes her skin fine.

it’s just she thinks would be better on someone else,

someone who isn't like

this. rotting teeth and birthmarks.

girl swallows the world whole and spits

herself back up—

girl is not a girl. girl is the air in

her hands. the space outside of the storm.

the thunder between her knees.

the boy

she doesn't know how

to be.