note: fictionpress ate my formatting.

it's a feeling
like the only checkmark in
'other' or the last
line in a novelty song.
distilling
thoughts down to zeroes
& ones to
empty from
pockets into the
lake or throw like tiny
grains of rice

is that what it's like?
being somebody
else's im
pact – not me.
i'd stutter & speak too
loudly on buses. not to
mention i've had
too much
choice. hair
clothes shoes glasses
changeable. Displa
yed like signs of
faith & pride

oh so lucky.
more than i
can under stand.
a photograph of a
crowd, silhouettes bleeding
together white

cover my face in clashing
patterns and I sing out
of key in the ever-
changing octave of
nothing everything
anything.