We seizure glitter, sparkling on paint-streaked cheeks, lanterns leading us back to the swarming crowds. We dress like androgynous alien tribes, only alive when everything is spinning, shuddering under the lively spill of night. Medicated. Why isn’t it every day that people are dragonflies? The trees have headaches, green, the dull sickness lining our stomachs. The underlying fear. Let’s sit under the tree they strung with spinning silver. Let’s watch the night slip between our fingers. Lovely. Frightful. Lovely. Laid out beneath us as we rode the Ferris Wheel, a shining carnival city, which we were dropped into over and over. I panic attack their poems of positivity. Flinch under their freedoms forceful nudity. Originality has never looked so beautiful. And I just want to be normal. To not choke on closeness more easily than the smoke that blurs it all in to emptiness.