Chameleon

Would you feel better if you had a label?

I probe the air with my left eye, spy

socratic poker face with my right –
she can’t see me, just case notes;

I, unidentified, somewhere between
the sighing beige of the walls

and the dirty carpet, stained
with confessions, some sharp enough

to draw blood, others hollow and
unyielding. She tells me that I

have a lot to be thankful for
while I count the brown bricks

outside, each one an exiled breath
and the cadaver of wounded trust

makes a morgue of the coffee table.

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