Nineteen and a half.
No job to reflect my adolescent prospects.
The prospects in question cannot be a part of my nationalistic expenses. But worry me to carry my heavier body through Obāchan’s home.
I react like nerves
with every sense I retract the thoughts
The ones I am desperate to share
“This is why I don’t hang out with them often,” to be forgotten,
my relationships turn rotten.
Yet the skin still gleams as if the flesh is fresh.
Is this me? Is this luck?
The boss blames the worker, the worker blames his wife, the wife blames the children and I blame them all.
The screen hits my face with strength
under covers to be undercover.
Poison is my delusion and my mind plays illusions that I am right.
I’ve lost my hair tie.