Stray

When he speaks of deserved and undeserved as more than terms — how they can matter, suddenly — I can tell he believes it. Sometimes a thing can seem star-like when it’s just a star, stripped of whatever small form of joy likeness equals. Sometimes the thought that I’m doomed to fail — that the body is — keeps me almost steady, if steadiness is what a gift for a while brings — feathers, burst- at-last pods of milkweed, October — before it all fades away. Before the drugs and the loud music, before tears and restraining orders and the eventual go fuck yourself get your ass out of here don’t go