The face I make when I’m your shoes

Another midsummer flu

Thank God you still love me

Our strange captivity continues

Everything gets named in one punishing push

I dreamt of logical containment

I’m worried I might not know love like ours again

I’m your stupid paper-bag-headed walker

Dreaming up words in needlepoint; everything worth writing down is something I imagine myself saying to you. Prolifically sleeping through all my nights and all my days because I’m starving, smiling at everyone on the street, proud to update my file at the pharmacy. Staring myself down in the shop window and not fully knowing what I’m looking at.

Got a phone call from the Lord saying “Girl go get a sweater right now”

What’s that writing on your everything

I am ready for life

Just knowing you’re in the world is enough

I know you like to line dance