I teeter around marriage proposals from shrapnel fantasies, I circle and caw,
I turn benches into scapegoats, it doesn't add up to anything. I accumulate muteness. I told
him I was born clapping to the song but now it's starting to get weird.
Like adult nervousness on the first night of having a new pet. The underbelly of luxurious loyalty
to a sense of self is that my voice sounds like an old friend. Sustainable, but we don't share space,
no more elderly couple quiet in the dining room. I perform for myself. I get bored
of picking memories to keep. My two eyes get dusty from underuse.
At least I’m prettier than I was a year ago.