Have you checked for asbestos?
Could there be mold hidden beneath your teeth?
Are the cracks in your skin signs of shiver and haunt?
Can I rent a kayak and travel the length of your amygdala?
Is there an ingredient your fingernails like to hoard beneath them?
Why is that area of your body police taped and boarded up with planks and nails?
Are your wrists remorseful?
Can you climb or have your knees asked you not to anymore?
Why don’t you wear make-up to cover-up to brighten?
Can everything be altered? Will that make you feel better?
Why do you crack your knuckles?
Why does your belly bend?
Can your shoulders survive the childhood you house on your back and lug around?
What do you mean you never had a welcome mat?
What do you mean your doorbell is broken?
What do they wipe their feet on?
How do they let you know they’ve arrived?
Are you the sort who leaves your body’s windows unclasped and doors wide open?
How stained is your glass skin?
Aimee Herman 