she calls it rainclouds

she’s sorry she’s not more windup.

she’s been told she is a clockwork
which is why it hurts that she can’t stand
the endless ticking or the pendulum
and she tries to blame it all on one word
history; like it was just following, following,
like there wasn’t reason, like she didn’t
know this was stupid, wasn’t aware of what was
happening

she calls it rainclouds in her head.
but she’s been told that’s just a symptom.

so she goes undiagnosed
telling herself she’s childish, &
that with age, maybe just maybe
the nets with stop catching
the silvers of other people’s thoughts and
passions.

her hands shake like breached copy write
and every movement is a plagiarism
from the way she holds her pen
to that way she has when she smiles
head tilted to the side.
the personalities she shrugs on
like she’s throwing open a closet.
even as she’s browsing,
other people’s names in her mouth.

so she’s obsessed with tailors, and windup.
telling herself he could deal this,
so she too should be able
- but she isn’t
she’s a medley of music and drink
and gold caught outside the filter
telling herself – h i s t r i o n i c
- but just for now
- but she isn’t.

she’s determined to grow up and out of this
but in the meantime
she calls it rainclouds