Unlined

I'm chewing on a piece of salt-cured meat

while standing on my tired, swollen feet.

The sink is full of things I have to scrub

from the greasy stove to the rings inside the tub.

On the screen, she’s holding up a glass,

watching all the expensive water pass.

Her palms are smooth, a soft and pale design,

without a single jagged, working line.

The blue light hits a puddle of spilled juice,

turning the sticky grape to a glowing bruise.

I put the phone down on the laminate

and swallow all the things I've come to hate.