a sign of god is locked door.
for all that it's worth, i think he's
a man. we did portraits in 10th
grade & i made myself purple, just
my eye & the hem of my lips,
frayed jeans & a plaid hallway.
i take the mirror off the wall
& turn it over, she's there
on the other side, writing
in sharpie across her tongue-- waterproof. 
duck-feather angel, don't feed 
me bread. the keto diet
is a prophecy. let this box
show up on the door step. 
a pile of junk mail: bed, bath
& beyond coupons & the mortgage.
i am worth less than a glass
water bottle & you can't even drink
out of me. all things considered, 
i guess i could fake my death today
& uploading said documentation. 
at some point, it's a wastebasket full of 
gender neutral paper towels. brown
& coarse. the tree lays down,
sideways inside the dispenser.
pull me apart, wipe hands, what else?
it gets better it gets better
it gets better it gets better
it gets it gets it gets
how much thought have you
put into the body cut down the middle,
a scissors starting at the bottom
lip, only i don't have any scissors
so i sit on the tiles. the mirror
turns me over to find where
i wear old faces on quarters.
profile pose. abraham lincoln was
god & so by abstraction so is,
the penny. i dabble, tails-side up. 
sympathetic, digging between
paper towels. the decimal rests
between my breasts. 
oh ring me god. ring me.