Nothing about This Is Epic

My apartment is a series of invasions: mosquitoes, mice, boyfriends.
I don’t fight them—the mice are my mind, which doesn’t rest. It’s scattered
and scurries most of the night. I am experiencing a chemical anxiety.
I am experiencing unmet expectations. I expect
to wake one night crouched on the floor, sniffing.


Instead I’m on the couch, turning into a diamond and this is not
lovely. It’s cruel to watch my edges crystallize and reflect light.
I’m tired enough to be the center of a mountain.
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