You can tell that they were born for this,
and they are accumulating evidence against you,
that they are watching how you
ply your secondhand expertise.
You can tell they’re looking at you like
you’ve stolen this life from a thrift shop;
how you aren’t standard issue, how
your past lingers like cheap cologne.
We are just factory rejects from the major
luxury lines; almost good enough if
the seams are tucked away, and we
can’t wash the soil off our hands,
and we can’t convince ourselves,
but still, we stay.