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online dating profile


i’m just a skeleton wearing heart sunglasses, frying up tofu, forgetting my passwords, praying for every twitter user to melt into slime. when i need a laugh, i think of men who think they’re tough but recoil at the sight of armpit hair on a femme. my first crush was a blue tarp flapping on a truck going over a bridge. god, how the sound echoed through the galaxy and back. this is my latest incarnation of many. scorpio sun, no children. i’m in your area. come find me, ugly and proud, biting the chapped skin off my lips, jerking off to podcasts when i can’t sleep. in 5 years i see myself as an abandoned house, the whole shebang, birds’ nests and peeling paint. in 50 years i’ll choose a perfect yellow day and melt into the rhododendrons. join me.



metaphysically i have a dick / a puss / and no genitals at all / father / son / and holy spirit / ya feel me? / i’m alive and it’s got me hollering / wearing my suspenders and mint green heels with the bows / i change shape and phase / ripple in water like rosebud microbes / asexually / reproducing at the dawn of the earth / float in the dead of night and see / how the darkness is nothing more / than a dress unfolding / take a break to fill out tax forms / buy 4 cartons of blueberries for $5 / put on a blazer / put on a beanie / hide / my hair / let it down / shift / forward in time and watch pod babies in greenhouses where monstera leaves / sway / shift backward / to cavedwellers sighting meteors / which were nothing less than the body / of god scattering / down into the grass, into the canyons / porous rock, sex / less and hissing with steam


Sheila Dong is the author of Moon Crumbs (Bottlecap Press, 2019), and has had work published in Stirring, Rogue Agent, and Pretty Owl Poetry, among other places. Sheila holds an MFA from Oregon State University and lives in Tucson, AZ. In their spare time, Sheila streams too much television and collects instances of oddly specific or otherwise humorous closed captions. 

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