she is more attractive
when she speaks.
her style,
her being,
caught shifting
in a half-realized
becoming.
I ask,
how do we let the world know
that inside
there are symphonies
films
novels
poems
entire other worlds of beauty
when our exterior
awkwardly
manifests?
or,
is your fire lost when exposed to the winds of others opinions?
she looks into her notebook
and laughs
as she slides down the bench
to be close
to another.
you look good
rotten
she informs him.
is it the cocaine
the sex
or your well-maintained lawn?
it's just the shape of my
bones,
no secrets
at home,
even this white chalky form
had to be born,
he says
as he rattles off.
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