The Body Is Not An Apology Except For Mine Sometimes

I have a reputation of being loved but not in a good way
like how a corporate worker loves their office. I am an office
and the cubicles pattern on endlessly, each quiet and empty
yet not quite fit for sleep. In every city I have lived in
I have many memories but they are all of me falling asleep
on different unremarkable nights, thinking the same thoughts
every time—I don’t know how to do this, I don’t know why I have to.
I am not brilliant. I do not know how flowers work.
I do not pay for the bus. I save my token so that I might
have an excuse for the heaviness that slows me. There is weight
I want to sanctify and there are people I want to forget.
There are people I want to remember and when they call
still I wonder: why. When the duck dies the vultures must eat it.
When disability dies I must bring it back from the dead
so I can keep being myself. When gender dies I must find a way
to remain fabulous. One thing about psychosis is that the physics
are fabulous. This is perhaps a problem. I should learn more
about problems. Let the sickness fill me so I might live full.
Let the brain remain swollen to close up memory’s gaps.
In the distance I saw dancing. In the distance I saw no more distance.