I wonder how I look

I wonder how I look to the people that work at the Indian restaurant

whose window I always check myself out in.

Sometimes, with my hood up,

smoking a cigarette,

on my way to work.

One time, I saw a hearse getting gas.

A few weeks later, I woke up next to a dead cat.

The next day, I moved

to a barnhouse

across the street from the Indian restaurant.

They’ve seen me on my best days

and my worst.

They’ve watched a few different men accompany me home.

Julian held my hand

and I didn’t check my reflection.

We had period sex on, what I think was, a full moon.

With all the blood and semen, it could’ve been really primal, in a hot way.

If he weren’t so Type A.

And if he had more endurance.

“Were you close?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Have I ever made you cum?”

“...”

“Oh.”

He scrubbed the shower floor with bleach and a brush.

He was convinced there was mildew.

I told him it was just perma-dirt.

His scrubbing didn’t do much

because it was perma-dirt.

He doesn’t think I clean my shower.

He found a lump on my left breast.

I Googled “how to tell the difference between a cyst and a tumor”

It feels more like a cyst

the way it jumps when I press my thumb into it.

My brain skips to the attention I’d get if I had breast cancer.

Breast cancer for the attention.

“How does it feel to be so aware of how unlikeable you are,”

I ask myself.

It’s very unlikely that the people that work at the Indian restaurant think about me at all.

But I love to look at myself when I get lonely.