what is it? do my teeth jut out at such sharp, varied angles, like broken pickets hammered into gum. my lips slope, scabbed and flecked with grey-white spittle. my voice, sounding shrill as the haggard magpie in starvation. my thighs, bruised skin sacks of doughey, dimpled flesh, sickly mounds hanging heavy over rippled knee caps, like candle wax spilling.