Whether or not it was you
who set off the firecracker in my backyard, all that matters
is that I thought
it was you,
writing to the landlords I’m just sending this to you now
so that in the morning
I don’t think that this was a dream.
I await the presence of someone who understands
the genetic impact of a siren. I pull a siren
around me and glow silent, I pull a web of nerve endings
over my own face and touch everything like it is covered in dust—
dust is a shawl, dust is a veil of static. I reach a hand through
thick white noise towards a feeling.
Everything you say sends me further into myself
whether you like it or not, whether you mean it.
I fell off the horse into a bush of thorns and it was a choice between
the thorns and the hooves—can you guess which I chose?
I overwhelm my house with peonies.
When I go home I shut the door and my
eyes and my phone in a drawer
and I sleep. In the morning I look at the Internet to remember
what I look like. I drink so much water
I boil everything—
basil and rose petals,
yarrow and chamomile,
eyeliner and sitting in the dark theatre.
I slowly weigh myself
down with tiny stones.
I hide another set
of eyes beneath my dress.
I slowly accept that this new scar will come out
every time I sit
in the sun.
Sometimes I call it having a flashback.
Other times I just
like to have everything
in one place to get a good hard look
at my life.