Nothing

Nothing makes you feel as much an imposter as a blank page.

Nothing makes you move out of character like love.

Nothing makes you cry harder than having to stand up to your father, you leave bulging forehead veins all over the pillowcase.

Nothing makes you hungrier than walking home alone.

Nothing makes you sleep like an hour of chanting “I. Am. A. Good (Bad?). Person.”

Nothing makes your puke a brighter green than an unwanted touch.

Nothing makes you gasp for air more than a saffron placard.

Nothing, if not every bone is a banner for befriending another woman.

Nothing, to make you happy.

Nothing, nothing more than the blood at the end of the months to show you that you, exist.

Nothing a red veil couldn’t hide.

Nothing a mother couldn’t fight.

Nothing other than your fat thighs, they said ‘fat’ like a cuss word. Fat. Fat. Fat. Father. Father. Father. Father.

Nothing, nothing more than fascism dolled up like democracy,

nothing if not someone to love.

Nothing, if not confusing your words and your words.

Nothing, a funeral couldn’t muster.