They told me I can be anything. Fed
my ears with clay. Be the soul-dipped morning,
the unbounded star, they’d say. I said
I wanted to be the color orange.

They told me nothing lasts. So I seek
a spare balloon for when the old one bursts.
They told me life is short. So I eat
my blueberries without washing them first.

Each day I’m satisfied with my great feats
of turning every challenge to burlesque,
until I close my eyes and go to sleep
and dream the gaping hole that eats my chest.

And then they'd ask, for I might have missed it,


“When was the last time you really existed?”