lovely, these pages I sew
for sadness I know not to tamper with like a joke -
a sick joke that people find amusing.
I do not find that kind of joke, or you to be amusing.

I clasp my hands tightly together, interlocking knuckles
and sit very still while the company is antsy to inspect
me for any weakness.
(I am always assuming everyone is out to judge me so rashly)
I am straining my back and the very moment I slouch,
I will fall into the pit of self-irritability,
yelling at myself because my bones persist on frangibility.
God! am I ever good enough?!
(I am always judging myself so rashly)

I want to buy myself a cottage near a swamp, hoarding
the repugnant slime near my fireplace cozied up reading a book.
you may trespass; I am willing to share this (hell) with you
if you wish to get so close to me.

I do though, (at my best) suffice
lingering around buying myself something nice (you could put it)
when I'm aggravated, I tend not to listen
not even to my own advice.