I talk to myself,

no more, no less,

than anybody else

I’m sure.

I apply makeup

in the morning

for the people

in my imagination.

In regards to my first

confession, this probably

makes less sense.

What I mean is,

without it I’m invisible

to all things in

fantasy and reality;

so, I wear mascara

in case I bump

into a daydream

or a colleague.

When I’m nervous

I enjoy the taste

and texture

of my own skin.

I chew my nails

and their messy,

unmade beds

to the quick.

I grip my shoulders,

wrists and arms

to remind myself

I am real;

an open book

with a pulse,

intimidated by hands

with the intention

to close me.

I linger too long

in peoples’ hallways,

on the stairs

and in the dark corners

of my memories,

and I travel through

happiness

like a bullet train

past rolling hills

and the…