by Emily Symonds

What no one understands is you were supposed to die
seven years ago. You went into surgery and came back
not quite right. The pressure multiplies like fruit flies in a dirty,
too hot kitchen. You can’t even core an apple without slicing
your finger. You always insert your house key backwards first.
Your socks slip off, and your shoes slice into your feet.
Wastewater and evangelism bloat on your tongue. You smile too widely,
your eyes a little too big. What was once disarming is now loaded
and pointed at you. Each drive is your last one. Every shadow lunges.
Mountains are too close to the edge. What everyone thinks
is awkwardness, you know is just the scalpel slipping closer.