Matty Layne Glasgow | Poetry
I wait to be reanimated.
Love is like that—
resurrecting you from the dead.
I step off the conveyor belt
in the people factory.
Each fleshy mannequin
with its polished sex,
promising domesticity.
I begin to feel monstrous,
arranging and rearranging
the pantry. Inside my mouth
is an unfillable hole.
I have tried to be a friend to myself.
I have used both hands.
My mother cooks my father meals
and stitches his shirts.
They watch K-dramas
together on the couch.
My mother calls me with new gossip.
I listen to her refrain.
I unzip, waiting to be eaten.
I look into the mirror,
and it looks back at me
the same.