we are islands on a map,
getting lost in organs and twisted hearts.
if i could wrap you up in tissue
like a chipped tooth
i'd do it. because everyone deserves
to be protected.
it's weird, you know?
i sit here crunched up in a toilet cubicle
because even sitting at a table is scary.
and i am crying. nothing new there.
they always use the term
“butterflies in my stomach”
but if it's such a horrible feeling,
why use butterflies?
they are supposed to stay beautiful.

and i hope one day we do find something beautiful
inside us, something that won't eat us
up and cause
nauseous feelings of annoyance.

don't be afraid when i say it's almost
as if you're here.
the cubicle is confined and small,
forget about claustrophobia.
my eyes leave their sockets and see
you standing
by the mirror whispering,
“it's okay, love, you can come out now,”
surrounded by birds,
immortal birds
twittering a song no perfectionist
could sing.