In the parallel universe where I have children and a husband, am I happy?
Am I fat?
Are we divorced?
Have I swallowed one too many pills, yet?
Or is the tortured artist the specter and the lie?
Is that happiness an illusion or is this malcontent the illusory thing?
Spit it out, churn it up. Spray it on.
You’ll never know.
pigeonhole 