5/30

I slowly peel back
the Swedish Fish
that is stuck to the side of my face.
Glued with night drool I lift its face first.
A silent hiccup escapes and I continue

lifting past the branding scars of Swedish.
Bones are breaking somewhere. I’m sure of it.

Red and thin the tail refuses to let go.
Bits of baby mustache hair pluck out as the Swedish Fish
begins to lift like plastic
in the palm of my hand
revealing the pores of my cheek bone. I wince
at the thought of how

my pores look like fish scales. Non-rainbow, but grey
somehow. A waxy red film and I find myself in
fish eye. But all I want to see is
the valleys and peaks of places and sometimes
the people there too.

All in a rapid sequence the fish is telling me
something about my mood swings and
why I prefer to touch myself. How it is both hot and cold
in this bed. It tells me why I fall asleep with
Swedish Fish in my bed.

In an even faster moment, none of this matters as
I am already picking at my teeth and reaching for
another Swedish Fish.

-sonja lynn mata