I can’t get her out of my head.
I mean, it’s not so much that
she’s in there like the way a hermit
crab refuses to come out of its shell
and draws deeper in the closer
you get to it. She’s not in there
like that. And in fact, now that
I think about it, I’m not sure
she’s stuck in there at all or that
I even want to get her unstuck
for that matter. No, this female
version of me is in my head the
way a hot anchor is on a giant
television screen in some city,
where everybody looks up above
the street to watch the news,
only she comes and goes like a
picture with poor reception you
have to smack the side of a few
times in order to make stay put.
It’s not so much that I want her
out of my head. It’s that she’s not
in the Me Show as much as I’d like
her to be, and I wish she was.