Anything I do that vaguely resembles normalcy
is a cheap, mass-produced version I picked up at the Dollar Tree
or manufactured myself from low-quality photocopies.
All these conventions are strung together in dingy sweatshops,
sold separately, in indiscreet volumes,
with my bare-naked self portraits slapped across them,
barely held on with a dash of Mod Podge.
I wear the dingy denim until moths come to consume it,
at which point I am forced to take night classes when I should be sleeping
to relearn the capabilities everyone else inherited upon conception.