Loose clothes
I’m restricted within
hanging to my knees
my own cocktail party dress

Your attention served on a platter of horderves
small, insufficient to fill
feeding off finger sandwiches
I wouldn’t dare
touch with bare hands

unable to unbutton
oh, boys and girls,
it’s so easy to undress each other;
buttons line up on opposite sides
clothes caught in the line of fire
hung out to dry

Billy Mays can’t save your slip
oxiclean, oxycodone
I’ll hide my ****** braisers
in a creaking chest
while mine lies open
pandora’s box
I can’t find the lid to

I’ll break
worn out hairbands
I can’t contain
what chains my cotton
mouth too dry, pressed
dried tulips
cracked, two lips

Heat & moisture of a summer day
iron-released steam
I’m burning the clothes
you can’t get me out of

One day,
I’ll be able to walk outside
a naked moon dangling
one eye to see
all that my bedroom shirts
conceal

It’s Wednesday.
Some ungodly hour between
4:00 and 6:00. Maybe. I’m not sure.
My mind is soft, unfocused,
sleep-heavy.
Dawn’s greeting is gentle, loving.
A mother’s smile. A susurration, interrupted
by David Wolfe promoting the NutriBullet on an LED screen.
Avocado, kale, blueberries.
Pseudo-science babble stems from wild,
bright eyes, overflowing into bohemian curls. Overgrown and unruly.
Enthusiasm and conviction have
never been more entertaining.
Billy Mays and his dynamic personality pitch.
Stubborn stains shiver before the power of OxiClean.
In a parallel world, I have bought out
every kitchen appliance, every menial utensil
that will revolutionize my quotidian life.
Those ped eggs, the George Foreman grills, Shamwows.
And I am content,
as I sit on my throne of ShamWows,
draped in an oversized Snuggie.