It’s last summer and I’m wasting my life. Stoned at the kitchen table peeling dry skin off my hands like glue. Watching you chop onions and cry. You complain that your rich girlfriend has a lot of ‘learned helplessness.’ I could do better but I won’t. Now you are by the stove, turned away from me. Sweating into our dinner. In one of my dream lives I am so pretty I am famous for no reason. In another I am a good housewife somewhere in Jersey, on my knees praying to a tough love God. You say, you don’t need me, that’s what I find so sexy about you. I say you’re right. You say wear your hair up and I do.