is an anxiety
over she wished she could dance with them,
the inside, without leaving the little room.
The mind is cruel, she thinks, and love,
a hard outcome in a forest too sinister to burn,
cast itself, and sing. The audience claps.
Her life, she concludes, is a waiting room.
“Push”, she says, “I need someone to push.”
She could say someone told her so
but friendship is irresponsible,
too many things to look forward to.
It is Friday, the time she decides best.
When boredom turns to anxiety and anxiety to smiles,
this is the reason for art.
“Disgust gives birth to freedom,” she mumbles,
“and comfort is treacherous.”
After all, she hums what she feels
and she can fool the rest.
So now she is glad.
she likes the thoughts the sun smell brings
when she wasn’t a victim.
She knows what trust isn’t.
The stone of a single stroke,
crying builds and destroys everything.
She sleeps this Friday, this justified sleep.
Tomorrow she will try again to be model,
but she can’t see the sun from here.