I want to live on the seventeenth floor
of the building where only people who are willing to wear costumes
to the weekly costume party are also living.
I want to write slam poetry

so that my friends who don’t write poetry
will come to the performance and laugh
and cry
and have something extravagant to eat
because my friends are never extravagant enough.

I want skin that resists bug bites
that never itches and only gets the shivers
when a string quartet is playing
or Tegan and Sara are playing
or the prayer is just right
or the sunrise is right in my face

or maybe
I want skin that gets the shivers all the time
but not from cold
because I do not want to be weak
or sickly or dependent.

I just want to wear a parka
and let the wind whip.


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