By Angel Rosen
I take dramamine in an attempt to disable
the monstrous figure in the corner of my room.
His jaw turns sideways, becomes Picassoed.
The bottle reads for motion sickness
but I haven’t moved in twelve years.
Every night, he & I play Battleship.
Right before it’s time to sink,
my hands become some idiot extension,
reluctant to clench, fingers pinchless.
I can’t grip anything in front of me now,
much less this reality. At least,
I’m not alone.
This is how he keeps winning.
My cruiser nearly sunk.
The dramamine melts to powder
and sticks. I feverishly
swallow a second one.
3AM looks like this—
“G10”, hold your breath,
we’re sinking again.
Angel Rosen is a poet, a lesbian and a neurodivergent human being. Angel can be found listening to The Dresden Dolls, watching RuPaul's Drag Race or drinking lemonade. She is the author of two poetry collections, Aurelia and Blake. Her poetry can be at angelrosen.com or on Twitter.