I don’t know what.
Or, rather—
the matter of fact: why?
Am I pretending?

A pretty dosing,
imposing
i'mposter syndrome
in stolen lip gloss and rope burns.

Don’t ask me to put on these masks.
I’m done with it.

Every thought is scrutinized.
Every meal, a moral panic.
“Every time I eat another animal, you spank my *** hard.”
(Not that I want to eat an animal
every time I want a spanking—
no.
But I do want a spanking.
And not the guilt buffet.)
Mind: Reported.

"*******"
Mind: Swagger.

Am I my brain’s pet?
Or is it mine?

Russes
is a nice dog name.

Am I becoming a killing machine?
No.
I’d have to work out more.
That’s extroverted thinking.

Inside?
What are you?

An amoeba.
Shapeshifting.
Gelatinous.
Unapologetically not solid.

Enough!
You are dead!

Come on,
I’m not wallowing—
I just want to cry
after so long
in *******
with no aftercare.

I miss you so much, Bubba.

I am
a ******* *******.
I feel
maniacal.

Do you know
you can give yourself a hug?
It feels so good.

I’m asking,
“What’s that you do again?”

A shirt.
Curiosity outweighed my fears.
Isn’t there a cat
who got killed because of it?