I don a 90 cent Party City hat & / far too many layers, M scolds.
A sweater miscarriage of / teeth, the tardy slip / of a night sky. We
trample / freshman year quadratics to get in the car. Every street
begs my side-view to have a / Good Night, Hot Stuff! I draft a hasty
love letter to search engines: How to convince myself that I remembered
to turn off the stove at home? On a bad day, even? Parabolas reorient
birds-eye maps / where my warped-fuckery jawline snags her teeth / on
the rearview mirror; M gradients around front / passenger seat to reintroduce
her canine / to my collar. Upon arrival, I consider the half-chewed wool
of my outer cuff & / readdress Google: Am I allowed to cry when I turn the
age of someone who hurt me? Worse than hurt, even?— No Wifi
Password, Dumbass, they / respond. M drags me out & deals me
half a hand / of Uno. After last summer, I am no longer allowed / two limbs
as two limbs equivocates / a tree / equivocates / a weakened branch / equivocates
/ Safari, I fear my own body, / equivocates a Danger To Others / Myself,
even. Vertexes move graph lines around / their centres of gravity on the
dance floor, spades-slivered & scarless. It’s late / enough for all the dead
sheep to mean anything. After this fall, everything is in crisp
Times New Roman / & everyone yells Fuck Finals Hallelujah We’ve
survived. And all the party-goers— nonstatistical labors of love,
Firefox: How do I get glitter out of my monolids— keep
on celebrating / for me to live another season, so I do, I really
promise / I do.
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