3-4
I write in cursive, with three coats on, in bed, floor lamp on dim, wings outstretched, flapping gently.
I wear my sister’s red pants, washing my face in my hands, while making love to the teasing tiger.
Coach called me the wasp, while I lived in fear of Italian shoes, walking towards the best of me.
One evening my freckles fell off, near the refridgerator, in the corner of your sincere but crooked smile.
