Happy Trigger

Off-season and in the burnt forest of my nightgown, a feral undergrowth that marks me as burial site— to be still enough or just enough. My arms become fat arms: hearth. I eat dirt for doubt, a secret bleached old as lie. I out-want like a spindly winged monster. If I were a bug— were I—then you'd hope for reparation, and paint more brown into the plot.