Desperation
is the goth cousin of zany,
zany is mania’s
slutty little sister,
and the tiny producers
living behind my eyes
are having a hard time
pinpointing which role
to type-cast me into.
At the roundtable,
they ask what it would
even mean to be hinged—
like a portal instead
of this open hallway living.
They ask if, without these pills,
I would assume the position
of a universal remote
connecting to nothing—if,
without this overestimation
of my ability to control,
the demons of divine femininity
would humble my own personal lore.
But! The forsythia bursts open
like popcorn,
the birds are acting
in their own spring-type
unhinged way, and we all
smell the headache
on the breeze.
I’m advised that
without tethering
my emotions
to embarrassment,
I’ll once again
lose that twisted ankle
of human relations
and never find it again
no matter how many times
I click my heels together
