And I see a life’s-worth of
expectations craning their necks
up to stare at me, my dog

at the treat jar, the neighbor
at my running shoes-
the ones built for courts,

customers below my eye-line
impressed. They ask questions
they think they know the answers to.

I paint myself pastel so they’ll forget it:
my hair, my clothes,
my Brittney voice.

I hand out my secrets like
candy, or a gag gift that’s only funny
because we all know it's bad.

How can I give him so many secrets
and still have a mask on?
I’ve started laughing in place of

the weight of it, when he looks
at me that certain way, when
the teeter-totter lifts too high

towards the sky.
I can’t look him in the eyes-
he’ll see I’m lying if

I do; the cringe at a kiss,
the shrinking from a stroke
of the thigh, the arm.

I’ll pretend to see something in
the distance instead.
It’s better than looking down.