by Rosa Stern Pait

so i sit until there’s a rock in my back between

my shoulder blades and my eyeballs want to drop out

of my face and my mouth tastes like lukewarm garbage.

and flat sprite burns my tongue and clots my teeth

and i take off my glasses over and over and my fingers smell like food from yesterday and my legs knot each other into painful braids and there are twisted angles in my body

and my belly presses sick against

my jeans and my hair smells like old,

sweet tomatoes and my toes are trapped

inside my shoes and

i write a new poem.


rosa stern pait (they/them): always finding a joke. stopped shaving years ago. convinced they would look like gwyneth paltrow if they got their act together. spent an hour screenshotting perfume genius tweets. talks like an elf trying to make a bargain. writes poems about fish? is one? pees frequently. big fan of crying later. ask them about their diva cup. just finished mad men. don't call them rosie.