I can’t live underground—I need to be vaunted— 
but his apartment looks cozy where it sits
down there, and he has a nicer fridge than me.
I’m such a drag at parties because I can’t stop

being so fucking nuanced: an unguarded 
candle lights someone’s hair on fire
while I am making my little argument
in favor of dishonesty to someone dressed

in Patrick Bateman’s blood spattered transparent
vinyl raincoat. What is there, anyway, to be
honest about. People keep asking me what I am 
supposed to be, and I tell them all something different.

The room is filled with the unmistakable smell 
of burning hair. I always want to be something 
different. I stand in the kitchen avoiding your 
boyfriend, and you, in the living room. I wanted

to be Oscar Wilde, but I didn’t know how
or have anything to wear. So, I am a bird.
I am a woman in a mini dress eating olives
and shredded cheese from your boyfriend’s fridge.