"That there is a panic in my chest is not relevant. I am tired
of writing sad poems. Baby goats. Peanut Butter cookies.
Beyonce. There, Now it’s happy. I don’t know what it means
to be a good artist but I know how to read palms and draw
on my eyebrows like fucking Liz Taylor so I do have that.
This poem is for your eyes only. This poem is a knock-off
of a knock-off of a knock off. This poem is a purse bought
in Chinatown. The secret about this poem is it wishes it
were like all the other poems. The sequel to this poem is me
naked in bed beside you like every other night and me naked
in front of strangers like every other poem."