it’s strange that i know myself, and there’s the image that the bird has of me 

he watches from outside, but i am always inside doing the more important things: 

picking at old skin, 

crying and peeing at once, 

stretching my legs all the way behind my head, just out of curiosity 

yet 

he is persistent for me, waiting with dilated pupils and a gaping mandible 

is that not a bird picking at the worm out of gluttony? 

to fulfill a sweet tooth, 

to satisfy a craving at the end of the night– 

my existence a dream come true for someone else 

otherwise, i would have found a way to be okay with it 

his body over mine, 

grabbing my hair, my calves from under my jeans, 

the finger in my mouth and at the opening 

of my left nostril 

because he wanted even the parts no one else had touched 

he wanted me anywhere 

lying on a bed or on the floor, 

upside down and if we were silent 

i wanted to clutch my insides and pull myself out, 

to close my eyes and fall asleep 

he wanted me if only for one night, even during 

the shortest of the year 

the bird waits outside to kill the worm that

 he deserves, that only reaches out for air; 

it is how much he wants me

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Anna Figueroa is a Concordia alumna from the Creative Writing program. She enjoys writing about the beauty in mundanity and our flawed nature through poetry and prose. She currently lives in Montreal with friends that inspire her every day.