Self-Portrait as Beached Mermaid Barbie

I know you’re looking at the grit

on my breasts. Seashell-less.

I promise if I catch you staring

at my stains I will drown

you once I can swim again.

Imagine your death: pink-streaked

scales around your throat.

I learned the grip from all the plastic

that would never let me go,

all the men who’d hold my wrists.

I see no difference between

those aches—they were the same.

I have always survived on my

pretty. I know it’s left me. Now

I’m haunting, a double-take.

That’s fine. Try whatever you want.

There’s no part of me the water

hasn’t already touched.