EN // FR

A treatise on the paradoxical futility and necessity of “self-care” in a period
of political, moral, and environmental decadence, Megan, 

is a pretentious title for a poem, but
isn’t, is a searing truth-seeking missile,
but isn’t, 

is a way of making sense out of the
senseless, but 

by definition you can’t do that, Megan, so keep
trying. 

I’m trying to sheet mask the pain.
Seasonal affective in an eternal
summer. 

Remember, Megan, not to over-exfoliate. Sandpaper
smooth the 2-by-4, put up the wall. It molds away 

next to your degree in French literature, c’est
la vie, 

Megan, mon coeur. We tiptoe once again to the brink of
pretension, for now we’ve invoked our limited French. I’m
saving my pennies for the novelty of it; I’m writing my novel 

so someone someday can use the word “posthumous.” I did
that in an essay once. The cotton balls, the pillows that
Peeps use to hibernate Easter to Easter, 

every day will be Ash Wednesday if you don’t join the
no-straw movement soon, Megan. Megan, I hope you’re
not taking things too seriously. I hope you’re living 

each day for you, Megan, and not for some corporate
dominatrix 
or some Styrofoam container of leftover fries in the
fridge that aren’t even gonna be good reheated, Megan, fries 

are kind of a now-or-never situation. Eat the fries
now, Megan, or live to regret it. Save a horse, kill a cowboy.
Megan, you’re lovely, is that a new cheekbone? 

Megan, I’m so tired, but I’m trying, but the
vitamins 
are really making a difference Megan, thank you so

much 

for asking, thank you so much for asking me that.

Grace Arenas received her MFA in poetry from the University of Montana in 2017. Her chapbook, “they’ll outlive you all,” was published in late 2017 with Dancing Girl Press. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Pretty Owl Poetry, Rabbit Catastrophe, Bone Bouquet, and others. She currently lives and teaches in Boston.