I read too many books.
So, life isn’t as interesting.

Or maybe it is. And I’m not.
Interesting or interested.

I can deal with languages.
But not with conversations.

I seek drama on the page.
And bring it to relationships.

I don’t buy gifts.
I don’t give surprises.

I don’t even remember dates.
So, I don’t forget them either.

I cook enough to survive
But not enough to serve.

I walk through most chores
But not run many errands.

I play chess, sitting alone by myself.
I meditate, sitting alone by myself.

I bite nails. I nail scabs. I sweat a lot.
I don’t buy clothes or accessories.

I don’t stream TV. I don’t go to movies.
I don’t play videos on my Chinese phone.

I don’t order in. I don’t dinner out.
I don’t drink drinks. I don’t eat meat.

I don’t like entertaining guests.
I don’t like entering as guests.

I don’t treat myself so well.
I don’t treat loved ones so well.

I don’t earn anything useful.
I don’t learn anything useful.

I look at the sky and murmur.
I talk to stars and clouds and rain.

I look at the mirror and sigh.
I talk to my self, my muse, my voices.

I write.