The stage is set:
dull platitudes rub against my skin
littered across the prim pages of dollar store self-help novels.
Housewives with those absurd hair spray crows nest haircuts,
and chunks of yellow dye
I can almost imagine their crowing,
Can almost imagine a judge mental, fundamentalist gaze
digging under my skin.

In my paracosm, this ceases to exist.
The gaze.
The distance.
The discomfort.

Swallowing unseemly language
It bubbles past my lips, you can see the steam rising against
my irises.

If humans did not condemn one another,
perhaps we could continue before the curtains close.

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