dressed up
like a monday
i unpeel chin from chest
two birds
my very own paper hands
float out across the body.
speaking only in past tense
i hate everything
about expectation i tell him
my socks and then my sweater
a lumpy wool tower by the door.
mottled in flesh bitten plastic bags
we extend
sounds from pink corners of mouths.
no one is waiting at home.
just too warm bottoms of feet
that can't sit still for long.
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