Poem by Alex Creece // Photograph by Olivia Dileo
do you want me to tell you
that my face is masked in an adulthood I can’t scrape away
that I have an eternal weariness
worn as my mother’s quiet but unshakeable resolve
flaws that are unhidden, buttoned unevenly beneath a vest
while my elbows freeze from being seen
with #nomakeup, but not in the glamorous way
insecurities pleated to half their size
which crinkle and wrinkle when I don’t iron them neatly away
and zips that burst like sausage casings
in an eruption of dull, dull innards
or shall I just say I’m wearing trackpants that look like windows ’98?
