two white dresses at a wedding will command stares.
a change of outfit is not granted;
there are so many skeletons in my closet
that i can’t tell my backbones from belts.
i can choose to smile and wave like i
have always,
a rag doll pinned onto a cork board to be
sliced, diced, and everything nice.
to iron out my incompatibilities,
a creaseless palm clutching the smallest of
infinities that persuade me to let go of
cards that no longer serve purpose
for i am a temporary tattoo,
the last page of a calendar,
counting down to when i won’t fit the
occasion anymore
