I WILL NOT BE THE PILLS

By Zoe Stoller

The aunt in the room and

bottoms fit evenly into

wash. I will not and spread

cream on my arms. I was

carrying a purse and in it was

television living with

the sheets and train buttoned

down thighs. The question

is whether to keep the holes.

I tried using the first and felt

vaguely not alone. The

animals lined up on window-

sill. I will not and jewels and

shoe on calf and I must be

appropriate if nothing else.

No outfitted flowers. Real

estate requires show requires

kick in air and blonde. Bracket

purse and if the days come

then the father bruised on

nose. Tomatoes and the but

I can’t remember words.

My sister and I challenge my

closet. Change the way

dresses fall on hips. I must

wear professional tomorrow

at nine o’clock and not be

what I’ve become. I know

there hasn’t been a space and

my ring will never outright

show. With age the body sags

and I will rip like stockings.

It is time to go and I will

no longer come back. There is

no brand to what I am trying to

say. I’ve seen the pen and

stamps and on my arms tiny

ankles dirt lining toes. Life

might be long. I will not have

leopard on skin on forehead nor

the platforms nor the dog

clinging to side. Cracks in eagles.

I will not retreat to bed. I will not

say the names for liability but

they all know what happens when

at home. No more drained socks or

white. The same dress as the two

people before. Most likely plain

legs and bright torso. Most likely

one necklace above breasts. It all

depends on what eyes the people

keep. Never jeans because splotch

on stomach and face is all there

ever was. Mind invisible. Scared

to wear body with the sister.

Scared of back like chest. I will

not leave the service hide the

purse. It is the same I have now

but the other with the teeth will

be away. It all depends on who

I am. Whether speech is enough

to see sky. No lights hanging

from twisters. If I could imprint

memory in language then voice in

italics on my body. Arranging

colors of the week. I will or will

not be plain. I will or will not

be the same. Dark and dark on white

board and four days of butter-

fly in cocoon. Post-its stuck to skin.

Although I take the hangers don’t

belong. Half a book and air. I will

not be the mother of the chain. I

will not elevate broken foot. I

will not wear tar see estranged.

I will not be the pills.

Zoe Stoller is a queer poet and content creator based in Philadelphia. Their work has been published in Cleaver Magazine, DIALOGIST, Glass: a Journal of Poetry, The New Guard, and Rabbit Catastrophe Review, among others, and they are a Pushcart Prize nominee and a recent graduate of the University of Pennsylvania. [www.zoestoller.com]