Service Visit

I am never prepared to see you. How it hits.

Glimpse so thin it stabs in, there, right there,

between the ribs. Like the rusty nail file 

someone assassinated an empress with. 

Something corroded I can’t let go of.

Mispurposed. I am not famed 

for my beauty like that empress, 

but nothing and no one has ever 

made me feel as ugly as you did. Do. 

I wish you were ugly all the time. 

Your jawline makes me go deer-still, 

like I am prey and not just praying

for you to want me again. Impossible

to see your mouth and not think 

of how it parted when you slid 

inside me. I gave you, gave up

my rib. The hole I was left with. 

What did you ever give me

except a deeper addiction 

to nicotine and mixed feelings

for all my favorite places? 

In the lab you repair all 

our instruments. I am

surprised by your handwriting

on their tags. Attracted to it. 

Stare at these machines 

I use but don’t understand

the way you do. Touch 

the tubes and gears. 

Proof you were here. 

Touch my skin too. 

If I was a machine, 

I could be fixed, rid

of this longing, this 

lack. Your hands

on me again. My 

breakdown would

call you

back. 

Sophia Carroll (she/they) is an analytical chemist and writer. Her work appears in wildness, SmokeLong Quarterly, Rust & Moth, and elsewhere. She is also the co-founder of M E N A C E, a magazine for the literary weird. Find her on Substack at Torpor Chamber and on Bluesky @torpor-chamber.bsky.social.