In a sweater that doesn’t really fit
with skin begging to be scratched,
feet tapping as the computer glitches.
The sun is shining but feels artificial
and the air tastes a little burned
like hot plastic or leftover electricity
after a storm.
The in-love part of me is buried
like tulip bulbs sleeping in winter
so today is like the B-side of a record,
sort of nice but not the music you want.
Today is stale doughnuts, spotty windows,
taunting mirrors, a twisted ankle,
a reach too short, fuzzy edges,
a vacation we’ll never take, heartburn,
and a silent scream, slightly out of tune.
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