by Bailey Spencer
Lately I look forward to the needles,
the silver sliding into my arm
each week. I used to be afraid of losing
blood, of warmth and sanguine shriveling,
but now I relish the draining. Yesterday,
the doctor said I don’t produce tears anymore.
I’ve known this for a while, though, ever since
my head started feeling cotton-packed
and I began to live in the dark. I hung heavy
curtains and stayed inside. I read that everyday,
our cells die, thousands of them falling to our books,
the floor. We shed them in our coffee and eat them
with our bread. In a year, a body completely new.
But I can still trace old touch on me. Replace
my knees, my hips with titanium, and empty
me of old type A. I am ragdoll and machine.
Bailey Spencer is an MFA candidate at Washington University in St. Louis. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Post Road, Midwestern Gothic, Terrain.org, and elsewhere. She is originally from Michigan.