sometimes be at a loss for words,
but not too often.
you have to exercise your
else it gets revoked.
reassure your rusty voice, your
too-bruised legs that you have trouble
chasing wolves away from.
some days your feet are rabbit’s paws,
one of many fucky charms
that hang like a dreamcatcher,
or a noose.
you’ve become far too used
tying yourself to belt loops.
some nights you are too aware
of your status as twenty-year-old
girl. not our interest in your origins
but your organs
(mostly your skin)
yet again a table with strange faces.
yet again that acid-wash unease
of too much beer.
you try to have fun and wonder
if they’ve mistaken lonesomeness
one of these is
not like the other.
you kiss the lover
and bite your tongue.
(turn your phone off
before the calls start to come.)