Marilyn, 1962

[title type="subtitle-h6"]Kayleigh Norgord[/title][vc_row][vc_column width="11/12"][vc_column_text]I feel very wan, bleached like dough.

My insides have cracked and crumbled,

They have fallen into the heels of my shoes.

I am crumbs, I am stepping on myself.

[spacer height="30"]Darling. DiMaggio. 36D.

I have many labels, but only one fits the girl

Fixed across the mattress. Someone call an ambulance, she’s leaking.

She’s twisted up like a garden hose.

[spacer height="30"]There are children standing at the gates, calling to me. I wave.

I am the smiling doll, lounging on the sofa. I sip through a straw.

The severance of being many women—I wish I knew how.

Other women are much better at it.

[spacer height="30"]I am photographed reading, smart blonde.

I am photographed eating, fat blonde.

Write this down: I would like to say the papers got it wrong.

I shower naked, I sleep in pajamas.

[spacer height="30"]It feels like driving alone, in the dark,

When a cat skitters into the road.

It feels like I am the car.

It feels like I am the cat.

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