I'm going to braid my leg hair
and spit strands
into a rope that will take me away from here,
be it through neck or nail.
The pale air claws at the top of my head,
it buzzes in classrooms and snatches at my waist.
We are olives fit to bursting,
cracking the glass and spilling out on the floor.
We are knives too sharp to be held in a bread drawer.
My brain was replaced while I wasn't looking,
with what, I don't know,
but it's something
light, foolish, tired,
and
one year older.