My name is Googled and I am found. I am found out.
There are no secrets. Everything is here and there.
I’m everywhere. I’m messy. I’m ubiquitous.
I’m cheap. I’m trash. I’m a diamond mine.
No one can afford me.
Once I believed that Mom was right.
“Classy” is something every woman should aspire to.
And classy means being a lady.
And being a lady means carrying certain secrets to the grave.
And being a lady means wearing makeup, always, and cologne.
Get your hair and nails done and smile. Talk sweet.
Don’t use words like cunt/motherfucker/shit/dick.
Olan Mills makes terrific Christmas portraits.
Christmas portraits prove everything is fine and shiny.
There are things to believe in, things to cherish.
George Strait songs. Family reunions. Bible camp. Marriage.

I’m lousy with secrets, fat with mistakes, sick with love,
the wrong kind of love
the kind that fuels vibrator sessions
and not
much else.
It isn’t love if it’s instant gratification.
I’ve never found it here or there or in any online garbage bin
but I’m a picky eater.
I do not learn but I discern, bitch.
I’m choosy about my adventures.
They have brought me here to crazy town.
I’m the only resident.
I’m not a lady or a whore or a slut or an angel.
I’m definitely not a dog.
Multitudes, yes.
I contain those.
I’m a lot of all of it and none of it and all the time.
The carnival is in town. I’m popping balloons.
The circus never leaves. I’m the hungriest lion.
The film spools at my feet. I’m proving something.

Don’t ask me what or why.
I’m auditioning for God, that’s what I’m doing.
I’m singing for the fat lady, the one you call Jesus.
I don’t think
she hears me
yet.

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