You, a footnote. Me, a raging summary.

Sometimes I come back to myself,

like cool water 

drips down the back 

of a glass in July. 

Suddenly, I am twenty 

and phosphorescent.

 

I do not want. 

I live as a God, 

both revered,

and hated. 

One hand holds a doll; 

The other, a dishware set

from my grandparents' table. 

I live in the space where self-rejection

is a house on fire

and my friends are tiny tinder boxes. 

Here, I am home. 

Here, I live forever.