googling how to console your friend on her
twenty-first birthday in a pit of
derealization and vodka crans. no results found.
clawing. carnations and clawing into
a scratch in my throat that air perforates.
sharp whistling. serrated. dry.
telling you i want a house on peach street,
only because I like how it sounds. I like how
a lot of things sound. tupperware. coal.
a twining plant of a woman,
creeping tendrils desperate for the next softness.
you always know where to find me.
floating, somewhere in the pacific, thinking of you
sticking to my skin like salt. wondering if the water
is getting warmer, or if I’m only getting used to it.
Art by Madeline Langan