Through paper thin walls
I can hear my neighbour
Marigold.

She starts with the same lie
every time
      my husband Finnegan
      will be home soon
      let’s make this quick.

I can tell what kinks
the john has paid for
by the uniqueness
of the name she gives
her fake husband.

I once asked,
why the make-believe spouse?
Marigold responded
with delicate articulation
        a girl in this line of work
        needs to pretend
        to have some normalcy
        in her life
        a reason to be kept alive.

Having nothing left to conceal
she lives her life
like no one is watching.
She leaves me astonished,
wishing to live one minute
as open as she lives every moment.

I am disconnected
from my entire self
like these fingerprints
I’ve known my whole life
somehow aren’t mine.

Out of body experiences
and feeling like
I’m on the outside looking in
has become the norm.

I’ve wiggled my way
into these stories
this background
but I don’t belong here.

Someone is going to notice
call me out
for being an imposter
in my own life.

I’ve existed for decades
feeling like I’m living
in someone else’s skin.

She asks,
      how can you be happy
      living in this
      no bedroom *******
      that somehow gets smaller
      with every sigh?
      We weren’t supposed
      to be these people,
      happily moving hot air
      from one place to the next.

We are like mannequins now
      every aching minute together
same faces and no new words.