mouthpiece

I see myself in the mirror at a petrol station. I watch my own movements, try to forget what I look like, to not recognize this unhinged body. To leave it behind. I shove a petroleum gun into my vagina. I call my old mom to ask if I use diesel or petrol. She says it’s rarer than that. That my blood type can save people. I don’t ask who. She says I am a sailor, a life saver, that she loves me. I hang up. The woman in the mirror has started crying. I try to comfort her, but with the petrol gun in my vagina I can’t reach her cheeks. So from an awkward distance, I try to tell her to just look me in the eyes and breathe out. A man in a fluorescent jacket asks if I’m done with pump six. I tell him I’m not sure. He nods, like he understands. I try to put on my pants without spilling too much petrol on the floor. I reach into my mouth for my credit card — that’s where I keep all important things now, since I’ve stopped eating. I pay and walk home. My vagina is dripping, leaving a trail behind me. I hope I still have some petrol left when I get home, to give to the robot, my old mom.