By Brooke Miller

She’s all classy.
Black kitten heels sprawled at the bottom of her
white dresser and white sheets
stained with coconut oil.
At night she’s ghostly and pretty.
She's like me, you know.
we’re both people’s sanctuaries,
taking up space for others to sleep in.
I can rip my tights without shame in her and
stain my silk sleep mask
with mascara smudges.
They don't ever go away these days.
The book I made for my ex-lover’s anniversary
is face down on a rolling cart
that I bought freshman year with my
Mother.
would she have told me to be more gentle?
No, she would have told me to rage.
I built that polished wooden desk
while crying about a broken bracelet and my roses dying.
Acetone stains dotting the finish
because who else will paint my toes if i don't do it myself.
And there’s a hole in the wall next to my bed
from me throwing down the heaviest piece of the dresser while building it.
It caught at the corner
like my nails digging into my thighs.
The instructions said one person couldn’t hold it alone.
My toothbrush still doesn't have a holder and
The Monet book lies on my nightstand
with his handwriting and
God, do I ever want to buy a $74 Diptyque candle
just to throw it off my fire escape
because no one would tell me no.
I don't want to be a gentle thing.
Let me thrash around in my hand-me-down sheets
and be dangerous in the night
but do not fear me.
We both look gentle on the outside
but once you get inside her,
you see she’s not so gentle after all.
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