I wait for my lover to text me.
I wait for the doctor to see me.
What am I able to build from his instructions?
I wish you were seeing someone,
because then you’d be happy.
There are snowflake shadows
drifting across the stucco ceiling
as I check yes to an infinite amount of partners.
All of my marriages ended,
until I started this medication.
I must listen to the doctor.
Am I open to trying ketamine
for thousands of dollars?
Am I open to running one hundred miles?
Am I open to stop using products with salt in them?
He flashes me a grin.
Maybe this time he will remember my name.
Ornaments hang on strings from the ceiling.
He shows me a binder of people sleeping.
Have sex with everyone,
but make sure they don’t have STDs.
Have sex with one person,
but make sure not to fall in love.
I look at him until my brain stops.
The turned off light remains turned off.
I should be there for him
to remind him of his authority.
I can buy and sell myself,
I believe in connection.
Sometimes I wonder, is snow made of cotton balls?
When is anything allowed to be real?
There is a copay for all of this.