was once a deflated balloon on the side of the road.
It dawned on me again that you have not been granted access to all my memories and experiences. A simple “yeah, same,” would do, and gendered then some.
I could create a mosaic of dropped cigarette butts, mattresses on the floor, smells of mildew, and a schmorgazborg of hoarded dealer houses I was far too young to be under the influence of as a teeny little birdie bopper.
I might say, the world taught me young it likes me best – breasts oil, filleted, and dug into.
I am a closed lock covering sunburns in many intricate fabrics, so prying eyes never know who sits just beneath these seasoned skins.
I love like I dance: in hiding.
You are a street sign, and this year my car held exactly as many passengers as I would like.
How should I feel about the fact the universe gifted me the life of a woman scorned, but forgot to include the gift receipt?
I can’t take any of these things back.