how to exit a body

there are good days and there are bad days
then there are days when they hold a broken mirror
to your face and say
this is a self-portrait
press seven shards of bad luck into your palms
like petals between pages
under the weight of a thousand words in every voice
except your own, but
you read them all anyway
let them take up space
your head, so heavy
and the bones in your legs aching like steel rods
this is how a lost train must resent its cargo
this is why people must hide from store windows, and
calm lakes and silver spoons
you pour and you miss and you’re still left half full
you want to speak and not hear your voice
you want to crawl out of this skin
burn the bad bits, then return
but you’re scared of being left with nothing