She Is Being Not Enough

Note: for proper formatting of this shape poem, please see the corresponding PDF. She tells the silver in her bathroom one chill Sunday night my life must be a hallucination, she says nothing in me is good enough or bad enough, or original enough nothing, not even the nothingness in me is enough nothing. Perhaps i am really a tree with a shadow self living me her beneath the earth the only thing i ever was excellent at was sadness my own and other’s gloom i can see it taste it i am an expert vessel, it fills me and dutiful i repeat its welling, i excel at summoning glimmer in the liquid dark i leak —Look at me, i take up too much room for how not enough i am, i am not enough specificity to be real and she kneels to sit on cool tiles willing a small sleep that might end in waking up to a full colour vision of hill tussocks and leaves tossing passive in measurable motions lashed by the tough love of the Easterly, and unfiltered Sun.