Body Image

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At a party I am staring

at a gigantic cardboard cutout

of Beyoncé that’s across the room,

realizing I will never be what I want

to be. I get drunk enough to forget

my aspirations and go home

unfucked and hungry, smear

my makeup and pass out to a movie

about the end of the world.

If I could bathe I totally would,

but the future is here and everything

must be destroyed. My problem

is that the only thing I’m good

at destroying is my body, a vessel

I wreck again and again like a car

in a video game programmed

to ignore the physics of death.

They say the asteroid will be here

in two weeks, so I’m making

a moonlight raid on the boy’s village.

At night they know all hips

are great — they can

take shelter under mine.