She has never taken a silver spoon to the contents of her head,
or buried her body in a lover's empty bed.  

She is not the old jacket hanging on the back of the chair-
but the inhabitant, a throne's rightful heir.
I imagine a life where there are no ghosts in the mirror;

when friends talk about their fathers, there's no bile in her throat-
the thought of spilling the contents of her stomach is an unfunny joke.
She doesn't change into her clothes as if a gun ha
d been pulled,

or dream of Icarus’ voice, “Jump” he goads
She looks both ways before crossing the road.

Her fingers don't pry at a laceration's half-hearted mend
or dig into her womb when the wind howls for her end.

Substances don’t brush away her thoughts,
Or birth them again.

This stranger version of me-
probably so easy to understand-
not a martyr in the least.

However,
I imagine without these callous grooves in my flesh;

I couldn't figure out how to fill the empty spaces of others
or hide myself
just right
under the covers.