State-sanctioned symbiotes, household facehuggers.

Oppression changed into fashion, like the rolled-up skirt

of a Catholic school girl. The delicates in my laundry I

never thought I’d wear. They are the new first face. New

routine, no foundation. No lipstick. Just trapped skin and

an unwarranted breath check. Check my pocket. They

are now among wallets and keys: just as easily

misplaced. They are the latest addition to the landfill, the

litter loitering along the sidewalks, modern tumbleweeds

strolling through electric ghost towns. An illusion 

of immunity that is better than nothing. Breath suffocated

by my own breath, I miss the sensation of nothing. They

are a means to an end that still hasn’t ended. Their

impermanence has echoed for over a year, yet they’ve

only blossomed like the perennials they are.