inside

the body knows, when you allow her

to offer Hallmark hand-me-down
apologies, in that deft keep-talking way of a real estate agent or Mormon
that there’s a sales tax you’re paying,
in fine print underneath your skin

with the adrenal gland of a shot deer, you run and run whilst you’re smiling and tap-dancing, and as she leans against a porch with the gun out of sight

you question

if you’re simply out on a leisurely stroll

the body knows, in the ways of cliché, that it’s keeping score, but you’re playing Bobby Fischer, without a knight or queen

the buzzer goes and the game changes and it’s no longer chess but a production line, it’s Build-a-Bear and you laugh at the obviousness, thinking ‘this time it’s fine!’ coz you’re clocking in

adding scents and sounds,

and a personalised certificate. You’re rewriting your origin story now that you’re middle management; you know the factory floor, you’re smug in their soft faces

blood is hardening in your mouth

but you haven’t tasted it

the body knows, that when the mask slips and rejection chokes her
it will be you,
unable to breathe

and whilst you’re down there,
you’ll smile wanly as people tell you,
just how lucky you are