One-hundred and One: Supposed To Be

Four days without button-popping kisses and I am
placid as a platypus, too busy smiling at all the
music notes and bubbles and stars dancing in my dreams.
Actually, it’s only when I stop to count and think of how
I’m supposed to be
that I feel a reaction rising in me like a bad taste.

I don’t want to see you every day but
I want you to want to see me every day.

In this way, I am unapologetically female,
furious that someone else doesn’t want
what I don’t want either.

Still, I suppose it would be nice
if you were more than an occasional shadow;
whether that’s the way
it’s supposed to be
or not.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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