poem: i have no reasons, i have no reason

girls in books
do not have interior lives;
they are emotion,
they are not Thought.
And here I am,
sitting alone in the dark
terrified to go out
terrified to stay in—
if I pulled myself apart
you would find text,
an introversion good enough
for Tolstoy, but not good enough
for—who else?
Who else—is thinking—
who else exists?
There is only:
I
lean into windows
and count
scratches
in the glass; I have no
interior life, I am bored.

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