I stockpile Pocky and Thai almond cookies next to my bed
which will leverage the surgery depression sure to settle.
How many fried eggs do I have to eat to heal these broken bones?
I’ve never poured so many cups of orange juice at the table, untransportable.
These crutches force improvisation of books clasped under chin.
My mini Jansport backpack brimming with nail polish, chapbooks, pizza slices, a Nalgene.
One of these days my ankle will roll out from my bulbous body again.
I’ll need staples to the brain or have a permanently misshapen nose.
Something to prove that all this pain wasn’t something so easily hidden by a goddamn sock.
Aimee Nicole is a queer poet currently residing in Rhode Island. She holds a BFA in Creative Writing from Roger Williams University and has been published by the Red Booth Review, The Nonconformist, and Voice of Eve, among others. For fun, she enjoys attending roller derby bouts and trying desperately to win at drag bingo.