i’m losing weight.
the fabric of my stomach is loose,
ribs and hip bones straining against my skin
as the flesh falls away.
i drink too much coffee now,
cheap and black and bitter.
i like the way it makes me feel,
all jittery and parisian,
like a model.
my hair is past my shoulder blades,
knotted and braided,
it falls in my face.
i don’t think i’ll cut it.
to come from new york city,
all tight clothes and tight smiles,
stilettos and concrete,
where i was happiest;
to come west,
where i feel so lost
(but the good kind of lost)
where all i want is open space,
old books and big sweaters and vegan food,
yoga and mountains and my record player
and the feeling of your skin on mine in the morning.