I’m sick. They say I am
but mirrors are loud,
catcalling at every turn
I have to look.

When did I become a whale?

My reflection breaches out
of the river of bodies on the sidewalk;
I hurtle into the air
and slap into the sun.

It’s wonderful, but I’m sick
and they hand me pills that
make me sleepy.

Sitting in a room without glass or windows,
I squeeze the soft folds around my belly.
Something inside me swells.
The more pressure I put, the more I expand,
so I pinch and press
until my body is perfectly round
and my arms can only flap,
little pudgy wings.

Someone take my picture
because they won’t let me look.
I wish they’d declare me
a new planet.

image011Anne Carly Abad has recently been nominated for the Pushcart Prize for her poem “The Bitter Gourd’s Fate”, which was published by Niteblade. Her work has appeared or will appear in NameL3ss Digest, Apex, and Not One of Us. Check out her upcoming novel The Light Bringer’s Kingdom, now available for preorder.

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