considering a photo of me on the dance floor (bourbon and iced tea)

i.

sure it was me in there, surrounded by other bodies, back turned and face imperceptible, but me nonetheless. fat in the way that dares surface tension, rippling creek-like, a balloon held underwater, yet smelling of patchouli, sweat, and scotch. feeling the rhythm in my lungs, sneakers crushing cocktail ice. i was so happy there—unaware of the camera and betraying the mirror. ugly to the bullhead in my eye. it’s because i only ever hold myself in one dimension, maybe two if bravery strikes the bow. i should get in the bog. find the type of air you look for in another person. i should break my ribs in a corset the way unlucky catfish break bones to find a home. i remember the air in that room. veiled in unsanctified chants and vodka sodas. i remember the bodies in that room. shadowy, like olive trees reaching out to each other after dark. i remember the whispering in my ear about where i must’ve came from. glitter and glass rims. stoned, charred eyes. how gluttonous was i to take up space in such a technicolored room. how foolish i look now trying to remember who thought i was pretty. and what a way to varnish my already itchy brain—fading into the neon lights and wanting to taste schlitz and carmex. there’s a word for people like me: undālauerns. i made it up. a combination of latin and the old germanic, meaning one who is both wavelike and lurks in the shadows. this body of mine harbors sea foam, is meant to crash up on the white cliffs and mask rhum rhum rhythmic curses. i used to be less aqueous. more umbral. i used to be photogenic.

ii.

there are concessions to my being—i think i was meant to live on land so that i could dredge up all this murky beauty for you…and that’s okay but i, like deep sea creatures pulled to the surface, am also unfortunately misshapen and uncomfortable trying to find footing on land and prone to bloat—but unlike them i will not explode. i will search through this writing in some time to pick that image back up and into something more palatable.

perhaps this is why i’m prone to sip scotch in the sense that i am trying to fill the grooves of my brain while trying to fill my lungs. i know it’s futile to think that there is enough air in the drink.