I punch myself.
I do it because I want to and I’m an adult now.
I punch myself softly.
I punch myself hard, so hard I remember I am an object.
Every day I punch myself.
I punch myself for fun and I punch myself for work.
I press my cheek against the glass of a skyscraper
and punch the other cheek.
I reach for my keys in my backpack
and punch myself as I reach.
I punch my forearm in Rexall.
I punch my thigh at Loblaw’s.
I always punch myself discreetly,
alone in my room, or while in public
in such a way that it could be misconstrued
as a mistake.
I never make a mistake.
I know exactly what I am doing.
I go to Yonge-Dundas Square to punch myself.
I cross the diagonal crosswalk there and punch my neck.
I linger by the hip-hop performer and punch my stomach.
I pass the evangelists proclaiming
GOD WILL DELIVER YOU
BODY AND SOUL INTO HEAVEN
and I punch that body in the dick.
When I get to heaven I will be bruised
and I will not answer any of God’s questions.
When I get to IKEA I hide in the model children’s bedroom
while I punch myself in my barely-protruding hip bone
with my hand inside a stuffed whale puppet.
What is it called to punch with an implement?
What is it called when you are happy?
I punch myself because I like to do it
and it makes me happy.
I want to be happy.
I want to be so, so happy.
