Was I better when I
lingered-
let panic run metallic over my
tastebuds,
let London go quiet in my neck
and swallowed it whole
Digesting every yelled profanity and tire squeal of my city
and
getting litter under my fingernails?
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react to things most of the time
find fraud in the frown lines
stretched taut with hanging knickers and
rusty pegs but
when I’m itchy I am most my myself
restless in the too hot room at night;
our too hot dark.
I do try to be honest and happy together
but I think it’s easier to
smell the ammonia in the
stairwell and
feel the furry uncertainty of a
distorted mirror reflection
that is inconstant when I press
it against
the rippling pads of my
fingers,
knowing that most mundanities
can also be read as
something more
alarming.