haven't you outgrown your definitions?
these made-up words are your oracle, screaming
at you from the pages of flimsy
romance novels and gossamer lips on
silver screens: this is how to be, this is how to be.
me—n., a woman in heels and lace,
head-turning and plumed, a tropical bird
among pigeons, dripping with sex
so every man turns her way. she is
a star stunning and beloved,
essential for life as the sun.you covered yourself in prophecies, the words
heavy on your skeleton, pulling you into
the ground. this box you've built is your temple,
the words are your god. you're craving
a miracle (surely your piety
deserves reward), but faith won't
put out. you decide you must be more
devout, carving the words deeper
into your skin. you won't settle
for a synonym; you have to be the definition.