february 7th 2016, 10:48 pm

quiet now. one of my many selves is sleeping. use your indoor voice. i arrange a vase of lilies so that their shadow looks unthreatening. i warm milk in a saucepan. it pays to be tender with yourself. you are a delicious thing and you deserve softness. repeat after me: you are a most wondrous thing and you deserve to be handled with immeasurable care. i dim the lights. i dog-ear the poetry book, recite them from memory to no one in particular. i like still rooms. nothing but the whir of a washing machine, the hum of a kettle boiling for tea. i center myself around these things.

eyelashes are the prettiest feature on any human.

i picture myself outside of myself. i want an objective opinion. is there beauty here? ultimately, does it matter if there isn’t? my heart has not been a good heart. i forgive it.

my sleeping self stirs a little. gets restless. she is dreaming about my other selves. the things they’d do if they were only given airtime. they worry her. what’s there left that’s innocent?

the kitchen windows fog with steam. the tea goes cold. the clothes need hanging.