My avatar remembers nothing: not how she got here, or why

a penchant for heavy jewelry drives her in this Pretense.

Life in the company of MMI (me, myself and I), where frogs are

red and blue only in photographs, and sapphires are unaffordable,

left me with dreams and daydreams but no manifestations…

My avatar is psychic in the blankest sense: without a past

she is malleable, feet on fire, feeling no nail when she walks

the landfills filling her materials list. My avatar’s an artist:

every link of every chain of every leg-iron she forges without

forethought. My lack of adornment becomes her tattoos.

Her pluperfect eyes, an unambiguous gray, are not mirrors

of her coined soul, but a half-spent reflection of mine. My avatar

inscribed my history on a bracelet I can never wear; she wrote

around and around until she ran out of room and said it was a poem.