Spaghetti Western

I’m supposed to be more—     I’m supposed to be enough. I’m not
       supposed to vomit behind dumpsters         or sleep in the tub in case of
fire, storms, or second comings—          I’m supposed to have
              better answers, better prayers than          crying out at climax
or crying in the shower. I talk in my sleep              and chew my hands
              in my car. I keep an eye on my shit—   this body, this
         lost cause, this bad joke—   who talks like this?         Wednesday.
It’s Wednesday.
            And I’m duct-taping a shower curtain
over my bedroom window like I think I can hide from the world
     in ways that work.            I want to be okay. I want to be good
at more than just childlessness            and tying balloon animals.

People on couch
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