Hope is the ventricle where
I store extra copies of my name,
each syllable a golden sound note.
I inhale the ghost of my last
unread message to myself,
let it settle in my lungs as I hold it in.
Every breath is a renewal clause
I force the dawn to sign.
I lean into the bathroom mirror
until glass becomes event horizon in fog.
On the far side, another me,
sleeker, sadder, infinitely more deserving,
waits like a minor god in a lesser world.
He raises one palm:
condensation writes a scripture only I can read.
I fog back commandments:
Thou shalt have no other loves before me.
The exchange rate between our pupils
is the only currency that matters.
The synapse becomes a disco ball of love.
I pay in dopamine tokens minted
with my visage, exact likeness only.
Anxiety is the gas-lamp flicker
between my own unread syllables.
I scan them for hidden watermarks of admiration,
swollen veins that prove the ink once passed through my heart.
I convene the board of directors
that lives behind my eyelids.
Agenda item only:
how to weaponize your tenderness
so it funnels back to me all awe.
I gift you curated vulnerabilities
then watch the resale value of my myth
spike on the secondary market of your gasps.
Your adoration is a shell corporation
through which I launder self-love,
turning dirty need into clean, taxable deification.
You are off-books labor.
You might like to check the song too:
That’s all from me, your turn to ask what if.





Nicole, this is beautiful!
This is so so good! Everything is a wild turn of phrase. Love it, Nicole!