and wonder if I have been unbodied since birth,
if I could ever shake myself back into my skull
or if it’s a lost cause kinda deal,
if I could eat Kettle’s Salt and Vinegar till it corrodes
a hole in my squirming tongue and still not feel a thing;
poke my pinky tentatively through,
Doubting Thomas to my own troubled sinew.
Saint Peter raises an eyebrow at this metaphor
from over by the sour straws and I yell
Fuck you, you’re a fairy story
and can’t quite make myself believe it.