I mix my tea with strawberry juice
and talk about faith with mosquitoes.
if I say I am _______, but only in name—
then they will let me be.
perhaps my memory is dulled and
frayed like shoelaces thrown to
I try to reclaim whatever it was
that had people saying, “I’m sorry.”
it was never my goal to be scary
and bitchiness was never “a thing.”
my arms covered in lumps
construed as islands
and sleeping volcanoes.
one shoe tighter than the other,
green sweater holding onto the sun.
six o’clock stops at the last red light
while mosquitoes preach to play.