Self-diagnosis
None of my exes had a dog. I can’t watch
television alone. I am unkind
with the weekend, never quite respecting
its luster. I prefer to get drunk
on a Tuesday. At all times, I am one tooth away
from a locked jaw, one ring
away from a married woman, one accent
away from a movie career. If I don’t leave
the lamp on, I can’t write. I quit
my job this year and now instead of trembling
at the sight of my boss, I shiver before
myself. If I dare put on a pair of business
casual trousers, my skin digs out the bones
I never picked. I am, I am, I am. I fall asleep
clutching these symptoms like teddy bears.