Yesterday, everything stayed merrily on its little shelf;
all I had were the ordinary names of things.
Joy is unsatisfying after the inhale of awe.
I cannot decide which is worse: the silence
Of well-being or the moments between
The explosions of words when you lay
Under the flowered sheet and they hold you
to the mattress like a hundred funeral boquets.
They don’t tell young girls like me how important it is
being weighed down so, so that you press against the details
better than anyone else.
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