i listen to sinead o'connor on the floor and feel a bit inadequate

i sign up for a poem in my rib.
sit on cold floor olive oil
sinead over me and leaving, sings of troy and i

i’m uneven. my father builds bread and i don’t wake up as i used to, but you’d give the morning for my tongue and i’d regress for cold milk
it’s a rift of brine to know you, but to walk beside the two of them is flat.
i hate the things she says to me. blended mist to liquor.