I’m wearing a borrowed shirt
and I’ve stained it with a dish I call
“curry adjacent” where essentially,
you put in whatever curry paste you have
with whatever vegetables you have
and it’s not really a meal but it tastes good
and you can eat it.

I’m wearing a borrowed shirt
(That I’ve stained with “curry”)
to bed.

And I can feel that thing,
Around the corners of my mouth,
From when you lose track
Of your hands inside an action
And there’s mess from your dinner on the floor
And on a borrowed shirt
And now it sits in the edges of your lips?

I’m wearing a stained shirt
And there’s sauce
In the edges of my lips.

I think I may be missing the point
But if I can say anything,
It’s that I don’t know
when my body stopped feeling like it was mine,
but at some point it did.