Hope for better is overrated
                      Pity is the latest trend

At a formal dinner party with etiquette and laughter
A half empty glass of champagne is in your hand

I listen to your slurred speech and deep laughter
And look at the others who genuinely display interest

While nodding my head with a fake smile
I make eye contact occasionally, a simple formality

As you talk about yourself and your experiences
I begin to wonder...

Wouldn't it be more interesting
for me to talk about myself?

Hand-me-down novels with bent corners

Piles of clothes and towels scattered on the carpet

Food stains on flowery bed sheets and blue pillowcases

A broken lamp on a single night stand

Gray suitcases filled with evening gowns

Closet mirror covered with fingerprints

Charging electronics underneath the bed

Popcorn ceiling and smooth beige walls

No clocks, no monsters, no tooth fairies, and no memories

It's rather....*practical

Clocks witness it all...

From the *time you were bullied
To the painstaking times of your depression

All these sensitive moments
are in the hands of a clock

I'm skin and bones
real and tangible
or perhaps a prolonged reverie