I Only Want What I Cannot Touch

 

The word normal hovers

outside of the unexpected,

that is to say 

that it exists outside of life itself.

Normal is the fantasy 

you created in your Barbie dream house.

It is milk that still tastes the same

after the cereal has come and gone.

An orchid blooming in dry heat, 

resting in my mother’s living room. 

Normal is the curtains closed 

when I am hypomanic and 

laughter when I’m depressed. 

It is a night unkissed by satellite blinks

or a moment when all I can feel 

is joy.