My body turns on me—
slowly, without ceremony.
So I turn onto it,
a truce of skin and ache.

Then I turn into my mother.
Then my father.
I watch my face in the mirror
and see their ruins rising.

I think of leaving the cities—
like the Maya did,
just walk out
and let the jungle eat my name.

I want to be Nefertiti,
but the gods are jealous.
And hungry.
And male.

I betray my body
and it knows.
It bruises back.
It creaks in the silence.

I wanted to be a god,
one of the ones with
eyes like fire and spines like gold.

But I am,
unfortunately,
CHELOVEK.
Meat and memory.
Ash in the mirror.
Dreams that ache like old teeth.