I want a closet big enough to hold all possible
selves, want under-bed boxes for nightmares,
want cacti and palm trees and bougainvillea and gardenia,
want what can’t possibly grow here or together.
I dreamed my ex came and stole all the things
from two random drawers, dreamed of
trespassing at our old house: the door wouldn’t lock,
and an angry drunk pushed in. I made myself flat
against the wall. I make myself smaller and smaller.
Ugly sounds have the longest echoes. I used to have
this nightmare all the time: that locks were
insufficient. I dine alone, slivering desiccated wings.
I get a massage so someone will touch me,
open closets and doors, hoard hat boxes of dust.
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