with scaly fingers, i tuck these
thickened, dry lumps of quasi-forgotten
nightmares with a sticky duvet to sleep.
i sweep the dust off another, and smoothen
it out on my weathered mountains of knuckles.
the cabinet i thought i’d never open
slams shut, scaring away the spirits
of need and thirst and greed,
until girl in the mirror pins me down with
that familiar gaze.
i tilt my head but she does not tilt back.
instead, she tells me she hopes they will not
notice my wispy, dry hair—constantly
bundled in a scratchy mop—
or the way my lips crack at the edges,
when i smile to kill the silence that stalks like a predator.
but she can only hope: so as i, can only pray.
entropy is a laughable thing.