by Jessica Hopkins01 Jun 2018
This spot of light
becomes a formless blur, as my lashes rest:
something real -
but nothing is.
i am not who i want to be.
she dances seductively in her new lace bra
she considers life to be directed by values
— her worth spreads its liquid self onto each part of this desired identity
each part just as distant, separate.
she knows no one, for there is no such thing. But she wakes
each day. She stifles her scream -
her scream of exstatic desperation.