The Empress's New Gown

I am a memory hoarder.

I mourn the loss of memories before they even have a chance to draw

breath beyond their embryonic form. Amniotic fluid doubles as

an embalming agent. I stunt their growth, do not give them enough

air— smother that which I love the most. Ill-fated Desdemona.

I am alone(r). Don’t leave me...leave me......me........

I always end up alone.

I weave memories

into a patch(not)work(ing) gown. WhyWhyWhyWhy?

.

Rummaging

through the trash restoring deleted files —

my new treasure, made to measure. Shoving

my restless hands into pockets of time

stimming, 5t!mm!ng, sti-sti-stimming.

.

Wrapping this hulking emptiness

around me, I shimmy into the discomfort

of scratchy sleeves, imagine it is the finest

aubergine velvet caressing my loneliness just so.

I walk into the autumn drizzle; it is spitting weakly

like a neutered eco-shower with throttled potential.

.

The gown does nothing — is nothing.

I am a naked fool.