Sometimes I don't notice I'm awake.
Mornings that feel like the night before, throat
bruised by time swallowed like pills. Door
closed as I play dress-up, a politician of
cloth. My voice echoes dangerously
clear through my head.

i wonder if it always
feels like this – like homemade
haircuts and long skirts swirling
like the end of a season
(wrapped behind formalities). like
stage lights stage lights hot
on my face as the audience's
eyes flicker in shadow. like
feet on pavement, skin on
skin, light on lens, fabric
crumpled; exposure. like
maybe if i go too far
i will finally know what
too far means.