as the white crow flies

pursing

I was in the bathroom and I cried,
fading out against the stall as
a circuitous stream of inner hatred
rolled over me:

you don’t think about sex enough
you like sports too much
you don’t read enough
or you read too much
you don’t like the same girls
or the same boys
you need to straighten up sharpen up
dress down and get better at being
ideal

I pushed off the wall and saw
there was a tarnish of breath where I
had come and gone
and then

I guess

it was okay.