Once I wore a dress liquid as vodka. My lover watched me ascend from the subway like I was an underground spring breaking through. I want to stop wanting to be wanted like that. I’m tired of the song the rain sings in June, the chorus of hope, the ravenous green, the earth, her ornate crown of trees spiking up from her loamy head. There are things I wanted, like everyone. But to this angel of wishes I’ve worshiped so long, I ask now to admit the world as it is.