Member Poem

I don’t think about my heart unless
it hums in my ears or when a nurse
holds a stethoscope against the crook
of my arm, can’t remember when a stranger
last touched so delicately my exposed skin.
I take long, deep breaths as bare feet
dangle in the air. Soon you’ll say
you aren’t capable of love but care
for me deeply and I’ll ask for my
Zoloft to be upped and sleep
with someone regrettable from
the internet. There’s a pattern
between us as reliable as the pumping
of blood. Maybe you’re right that I
shouldn’t buy glasses the same shade
of blue as my eyes. I like it best
when I can’t see my body in the dark
of my room but your hand still finds mine.

Originally published in The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and by Porkbelly Press in the chapbook "My Body Is a Poem I Can't Stop Writing"