I Can’t Stop Being Performative

and won’t, won’t be naked until this movie is over
because moving images are ultimately greater than—
because sleeping alone is ultimately greater than—
some grunt want whetted and done. And now
I’m crawling across the bed, over the comforter
plashed with huge purple flowers—to you, but not
for you—for my fourteen-year-old self reeking of
controlled heartbreak and watching me do it.
This is why I put on a nightdress and call it
a nightdress, a show. This is the difference
between Karyna and a light bulb: a screw.
Why I make all the ghosts go round and
give your penis the shivers. Because won’t.
Because will not and will, too. Because that
little center with the tall fence around itself
can’t stick to her script. Lift up your shirt,
I say. Let me smell your armpits, I say. Don’t
pretend this is weird. I’m doing it for her,
not you. Shut up, I say. Let me. They smell
like pennies, like newsprint, like cumin-stuffed
canaries. Listen to her slow-clapping from her
velvet seat like she’s not squiggling down
into the wool of herself. I’ll undo your belt
with my teeth, but only this once. I need
to smell your junk, I say. I say we’re on
a houseboat. I say we have nothing to wear
but wet sheets, nothing to play with but this
old Scrabble board, missing half the letters.
I’m dying, I say. Open the window.
I’m dying, I say. Bring me all the water.
Go away. I need to dress the set like, Oops,
was I wearing these pearls in the shower?
Did I misbutton your button-down when
I threw it on quick like I just heard a crash
in the kitchen? If you loved me you would
see her there in the front row and snap off
the footlights. If you loved me you’d call this
costume a costume. You’d make me pick up
all the seed pearls with my baby teeth.