Abigail’s new friends were pretty into flushing the toxins out of their systems.
They were passionate about wheatgrass
and three-day juice fasts.
Was this what bound them together?
Abigail tried a juice fast
just to be polite, but it made her feel
like a space cloud, all roiling dust.
Perhaps she was meant to retain toxins,
as with lyrics to amusement park jingles
from the late nineteen-eighties
and the running list of the worst things she’d ever said
which flashed at the bottom of all of her thoughts
like a breaking news crawl.
She started spiking her lemon water.
She gave chain smoking serious thought.
She suspected her insides came with a bright-yellow warning label;
she felt certain that someone would spot it,