I pray to any god who will deign to hear me.
That’s my actual tongue circa 2014 in the photo. I thrive on bad choices.
Rose petal tea isn’t pink.
Pretending it never happened isn’t going as well as expected.
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.
Third time’s the charm.
Why are all the men I’m attracted to old enough to be my dad?
What does it take…?
“Tiny heart, stuck inside yourself, when will you open up for me?”
Sappho’s makeup, alcoholism, selfies, and my mom–in that order.