You are not what’s happening in the Polaroid (shake). Hall of ghosts, hall of visitors—which is it? Your ankles cringe inward. In one hand a lunch box, Scooby. In the other, a green plastic gun. And the gun goes off years later. And you find the lunch box behind the woodpile, rust corroding the dog’s bright tail. What can a body know of the future, breathing in now and exhaling then? Nail your metallic smile to the window. No one will hit you while they’re taking your picture. Run from others who have not seen your city. You’re thin because boys siphon more mothers’ blood.

While taking out my tonsils the dentist found a tiny set of teeth stashed in my shoulder. Looks like you’ve got a parasitic twin. Good thing I spent some time with that shoulder. Other bits of my floating sister equal a third breast, one mossy marble eye, and her pink sparkle unicorn diary. I’d like to read the diary but no matter how hard I gnaw on the lock, it won’t come off. I’ve peeled back the covers to glimpse tufts of syntax: excellent oranges, B+ in History, and the clincher, I heart my sister. It’s so easy being parasitic. Why couldn’t I be the unborn twin? Then I’d be Prom Queen, teeth in my hair.