thesingersgirl

I’m here.
My blood lets you know, I’m here;
it’s singing.

My hair is rinsed
with the intellectual regret,
also etched on the hard drive eaves
of the brain beneath it.

I’m physical; isn’t that enough?

Though my spirit is numb,
I still take up an inordinate amount of space.
This is why I’m careless with the chase.
There is simply too much of me—
no boundary.

But you know I bottled up
a small lump of spirit,
a ballad-thumping ballerina,
a petticoat dear
from the spirit of 1986.

Dear, oh dear,
a wisp of me is still here,
and I know you’re all craving for the fix,
but nix, nix.