More than once, I’ve dreamed I was a building

My life is a place, too.
A younger me washing the windows
from the inside, the door
chiming like permission. The bass
quakes the glasses, ruffles
the drinks, music to get
kissed to, music that makes the body
fall in love with itself, music
like that planet with the rings,
which tiaras all its broken glass.
Something always needs fixing,
not enough time in the straight
day, something fluorescent
pulsing above like scar tissue,
something half-bright and
remade. Duct tape holds
it all together like prayer. The place
of my life blood pink and
nail blue. None of the furniture
matches. None of the walls
stand. The floor croaking
like a foghorn. In the corner,
in the plush booth, beneath
the one good light, a kid
draws wings over
their eyes, makes an arch
into the crook of their skull
like a house. The kid
made-up, their face
halfway somewhere else.
The eyeshadow is their
favorite part. Blue with
the sparkling dust. It’s
a question on their face,
a sky they know is there
but cannot see.