My torso is made of polymer clay and I am pinching it at the corners to make the angles right. Angels alight from each of my shoulder blades, knowing exactly where to keyhole. No compass needed–the straight edges go rouge-brilliant of their own accord. All strong sides towards my ochre local heart. Scalene, it leans. Maybe when it’s all over, I’ll be ready for lovers to see me how I saw my own lines: heaving isosceles, my chest protracting into true masculinity. No longer bound by a refracting discomfort. The nipple graft will uplift me–make a phthalo fellow out of the round void.