Keeping up with you is like
dancing barefoot in a club at 5 a.m. after a party.
Leaving reason at the wardrobe,
I hope against all prior evidence,
that broken glass won’t cut me.
The way home is a long walk on the surface of a frying pan,
city asphalt in the summer.
I try tricking destiny into a favorable constellation
by tip-toeing around the black hole of a drunken conversation,
wearing shoes. But I’m too clumsy.
I scare the atoms off into oblivion with my approach,
and find myself alone come morning.
In the winter, I am barefoot again, only I can’t see the stars,
end up with frostbites instead of burns.
An amputation of the brain would help with the pain, I hear.
Next in line are toes, because I want to be your Cinderella.
When you demand I walk a mile in the shoes of your choosing,
I’ll finally be small enough to fit your life,
quiet enough to be seen as “wife-material”.