The Match is Getting Shorter

I mourned my own life three times last Summer.

I think I’m being followed.

My shadow is stuck to the concrete like tar.

My feet freeze with the fear of a thousand male black widows.

I hate crying in front of people,

but my tears are elastic and armed.

I have my guard up because there’s guards everywhere I go.

When I’m at home, I write in my revolution notebook.

I add five pages every time I say a different name.

When I’m at home, I unravel my twists with jojoba oil.

Sam Cooke reminds me I’m patient.

Billie Holiday reminds me I’m not.

I wonder what the sky will look like when I die.

I imagine the clouds as black and the sun as red,

like black holes chasing a melting blood orange.

It’s raining Bible verses, but I’m an atheist.

They say they’ll pray for us, but I’m an atheist.

My ears are infected from lies and oversized bamboo hoops.

My ears are bleeding, but I still wear the earrings.

My ears are disintegrating so I go without earrings for the day.

Then I put them on tomorrow.

Surely that will solve the problem.

When I was little, I played double dutch, and I would fall on the grass.

When I was little, I thought I’d be famous when I was fifteen,

and I’d die by the time I’m thirty.

I’ve always loved the way butterflies look in the wind.

They’re so free and colorful.

They’re so free and so colorful.

like pretty paint strokes that fly.

It must be so wonderful to fly.