In the morning you mentioned I snored
for seven minutes, you timed it
I thought girls didn’t, so it’s funny
the things you learn only by deciding
to delicately shed dead skin cells
under the same linens
the ones I never iron
even though I know girls should
domesticity, I can’t get on my knees,
for you
would fill my bones
with unwanted goosebumps
and stretchmarks I’m ready,
but unwilling to share my body with
I imagine the steam of your chores would annex me
to his ribcage, prepare me like a fitted sheet
sticking to the corners of the stained mattress
stay-on-the-couch wife,
pretend not to have unfulfilled passions
I hear the faint click
of the lock
downstairs
once, twice,
you always turn the key the wrong way
the first time
when the stairs yell
I’m reminded that I’m still annexed
to you, like I used to be a country with a different name,
but I think you’ll take my last name
if we decide to buy a dishwasher together,
it never gets all the crumbs off
but the hum of the water reminds me
of when you come home after driving
with alcohol under your fingernails,
like evidence scratched from self defense
but you’re a nice drunk, kind,
even if you drink for self defense
you slide plump pillows under my neck
and smile wider, at my top lip
which overpowers the bottom only at night,
you nudge me out of dreams
to tell me about your night,
this is always the best time
to interrogate your lies, but I’m too tired
so I let you lean on the curve of my neck
with wrists full of sweat or rain,
I can’t tell if the moisture is from you running home,
or if the clouds tried to erase the tattoos
from your arms
I got one for you, a tattoo
behind my neck, black numbers,
when I wasn’t even sure I should
now I hide them subconsciously
with low buns or tangled follicles
I remember the permanency tickling,
and sweat or rain on my fingertips
while I sat with my head facing
the dust of dead skin cells, on the floor
the pressure of the buzz on my neck,
the weight of my exhaustion interferes
with your voice,
but I can still hear you,
with my head facing down, like a fetus
and the weight of your leg finally on my hip
the vibrations of your diaphragm
tell me about your night
how a waitress yelled:
“Freedom, party of one”
at the diner on Gun Hill Road,
and you laughed, at the name
until you saw he didn’t look free at all
as he slid into his booth, alone
and how you told the one joke to your table
to shift your thoughts
from the freedom you lack
the one you tell everyone,
it’s my favorite,
though it isn’t very funny
anymore
but can still make my stomach contract
like little legs stretching,
kicking the pink flesh of mothers
who tried to go inside, but could not follow
through.

I smile wider, like you do
half full of sleep, I hear you whisper,
I think it’s a whisper, but it could be lukewarm shouting
with your mouth behind the metal of my pierced ears
the ones I should clean, in the morning
when my eyelids are ready,
like all girls should do, but know I won’t
as I trip back into paused dreams
you let me sleep
and for seven minutes you time the harmony
of obstructed air.

Giada Scodellaro
Pitched Entry