Cows are my favorite animal, and my mom is worried about me.
French toast at noon.
Every summer, every winter.
That’s my actual tongue circa 2014 in the photo. I thrive on bad choices.
Figuring it out was painful.
I see violets blooming between her teeth.
“I can’t compare her to pancakes. That sounds vaguely sexual. I know… I’ll change ‘pancakes’ to ‘crepes.’ That makes it deep.”
Rain: translucent, crystallized youth on sticky, tender lips.
Sappho’s makeup, alcoholism, selfies, and my mom–in that order.
I’m pretty sure the poem I’m remembering is by William Carlos Williams.
Like the track marks on our embroiled, addict hearts…
Thinking about a girl I met in California…