Once I wore a dress liquid as vodka.
My lover watched me ascend
from the subway
like I was an underground spring
I want to stop wanting to be wanted like that.
I’m tired of the song the rain sings in June,
the chorus of hope, the ravenous green,
the earth, her ornate crown of trees
spiking up from her loamy head.
There are things I wanted, like everyone.
But to this angel of wishes I’ve worshipped
so long, I ask now to admit
the world as it is.
Photo by Carlos Irineu da Costa on Unsplash