I entered reality today with hands
that don’t grip so well anymore.
Blue, papery blue veins;
I feel so perpetually cold.

My face throws itself to the water,
to breathe, to become,
a nymph who has forgotten her place
in the world.
So bitter I refuse to move,
from my steaming lie of an oasis.

I’d like to think that
to need, and to run
into dark, sullen glass
is more shame than virtue
but then my oblivion couldn’t say

“misery is quite provocative.”

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