A GIRL LEARNS TO EAT HER HEART OUT
in church. with her mother sitting two seats over.
with her fingers flipping through hymn books.
like they too know hunger is what you feel when you are desperately
trying to mean something/
in her room. with the lights off. where she wants to feel big.
and important. so she invents a tragedy. so she pushes her fingers
as deep inside as they will go. hoping they can touch something
that brings back answers. touch is a hand that hangs at her throat. is a tongue
pressing on the rooftop of her mouth. waiting for her body to do
in her lover’s hand. thinking he will love her
now that she has been touched. surely he will miss
every vestigial limb once she is gone. maybe something
holy might crawl out of his mouth this time. maybe she’ll find
god even if it means boy/
in the supermarket. with florescent lights illuminating
every hurt she has tried to bury. onlookers rummaging
inside her body for what has finally soured. looking at the strawberries.
at the oranges. at the trembling girl. looking for something
to eat with their hands/
in the rain/ in a parking lot/ in a car going too fast/
in a body lying at her mouth’s edge/ in between another
girl’s thighs/ between the spaces in her teeth. and the notches
in her tongue. without her mother knowing. without leaving a mess. without feeling a thing.
By Monericka Semeran
Monericka is a young, emerging poet in the New England area. She is in undergrad studying International relations and History, hoping to one day change the world. She can be found listening to Mitski at midnight, reading, writing, or considering radical notions of girlhood and blackness in her spare time.