I’m supposed to be more— I’m supposed to be enough. I’m not
supposed to vomit behind dumpsters or sleep in the tub in case of
fire, storms, or second comings— I’m supposed to have
better answers, better prayers than crying out at climax
or crying in the shower. I talk in my sleep and chew my hands
in my car. I keep an eye on my shit— this body, this
lost cause, this bad joke— who talks like this? Wednesday.
It’s Wednesday. And I’m duct-taping a shower curtain
over my bedroom window like I think I can hide from the world
in ways that work. I want to be okay. I want to be good
at more than just childlessness and tying balloon animals.
