nat raum
my body’s looking wrong
After “The Other Side of Paradise” by Glass Animals
wronger than spread legs
at fourteen. wronger than girl
was for me—wrong enough
on its own without every dimple
of cellulite he magnified.
wronger than stretch marks
like wounds on thighs. wronger
than actual wounds on forearms
my body’s looking wrong.
wronger than upturned
stomach now at the mere
mention of rail tequila or
cheap domestic lager. wronger
than how he said it’s only
cheating if it’s with a man.
wronger than wrapping my drunk
self around the nearest warm body.
my body’s looking wrong.
wronger than i was when
i thought i was straight. wronger
in the minds of some than i’ll ever
understand, apparently. wronger
than forcing the feminine.
wronger than what lulls me
to orgasm sometimes. wronger
than sweat drips in feral eyes.
MY BODY’S LOOKING WRONG.
livewire
i don’t trust myself in the dark, electrified
limbs skating a surface of gravel and
sparkspitting into the chalky orange
of evening brume. this side of the equinox
breathes new fear into me with the same
sultry chill i coveted when i packed up
my fisherman sweater this summer—
the same chill that holds my arms, sternum
to fingertip, when my jaw and shoulders
coil like a crushed spring, compressing my
nerves as the ache jolts across the heavy
horizon lines of my skeleton.
Prev pubbed by Neologism Poetry
riverdoll
i spent the afternoon in the mirror.
i counted the new freckles and took
tweezers to the hairs on my chin and
i willed my teeth straighter. i willed
myself straighter. i staved off an ache
to dollify this hand-me-down body
like i used to, polished and posable. i
picked at balletpink and fuschia fingernails
and scraped skin off their edges. then i went
down in the river to pray and i realized,
my hair suspended in susquehanna river
sediment, that the good old way is bullshit—
a status quo of submission i tricked myself
into thinking i could be built for. and as
freshwater kissed my features, i dissolved.
Previous version published in warning lines magazine
self portrait as boneless girl
i don’t know where my surface starts inside my skin, where the rigid chalk of my frame meets the flex of flesh. i used to be one of the girls standing in the line for the bathroom, begging to be drank like cheap cabernet on a wednesday evening in spring of deception—those two weeks in february or march where you’re not convinced a groundhog knows anything about the weather. i threw one party and now senioritis still tastes like oak and plum with notes of currant. someone said it was a good idea, and you could have convinced me to do just about anything so i opened my door hoping for someone to waltz in and prop me up as i regrew, as vertebrae pulled their way back through spinal sinew and left me to stand on my own for a change. backbone means i can’t let my limbs go slack while i’m dragged through the tightest of cavities anymore, means i may crumple at the slightest hint of sweater weather but i also cannot bend beyond the depths my surface allows anymore.
Prev pubbed by FATHERFATHER
nat raum (b. 1996) is a disabled artist, writer, and genderless disaster from Baltimore, MD. They’re the editor-in-chief of fifth wheel press and the author of the abyss is staring back, you stupid slut, and several chapbooks and photography publications. Past publishers of their writing include Delicate Friend, Corporeal Lit, Stone of Madness Press, and ANMLY. Find them online: natraum.com/links.