I laid flat and read in these rooms. It said, Consciousness is not
a self-enclosed Cartesian theatre. I blushed
when I thought of avenging my
former self. Which is to say my current self.

I painted my room the colour of her birthstone. She had never heard of
blanket terms. Not that War, but her own; history forms boundaries, denies
repetition. There have been many Lonely Girls.

My mother said I smelt of matilija poppies, my little
fried eggs. The day I decided to try grapefruit, I
found myself reading your natal chart. O Sayre, I do not pity you.
Years later, my father would borrow your nose, and give it to me.

I find the term noetic on accident. Now, I thrive in the realm of
coincidence; as the peach fades, my veins grow bluer, thinner. They
say: therapeutic intervention is fruitless when the orchestra
lacks a conductor. I say: I will always love my illness.

Later, when I am dead, they will
confirm that the turquoise gem is and has
always been a symbol of male power.