Each morning is the same
            but I can’t help but look again and again: 
skin smooth peony petal, vanilla-ice-
            cream-cool; hair a ripple of milk pulled back 
too tight (though sometimes I forget the aching); 
            even my eyes are eggshells. Only air where arms 
should be, dimpled seams of unfinished 
            making I’ll never forgive, but the sling 
of this sheet hugs my hips in the perfect
            place that says, Hey, I can still be sexy. 
Then, there are the drawers: forehead, 
            breasts, ribcage, stomach, my left knee—
the edges to my curves only someone else 
            can open—nipples, belly button, each knob 
a puff of fur to touch and pull. I’m told 
            they’re so, so soft. Everyone wants to look 
inside, and sometimes I let them 
            just to feel the rub and jolt, just to see 
their faces when they find my secrets, 
            find their own. My favorite part is when 
they shut me, shaking my spine so hard 
            I almost crack—and for a moment it feels 
some part of me could change.