a white picket fence; half in between
where men made bruises and batter
women kept secrets hidden in their lips
throwing away the keys

running to plastered trailer walls
a home i thought it could be
that peeled at its seams
my father tried to keep his hands rough enough
for the dirt to fall off of my skin,
his arms to comfort me
so much could only stand an amount of time
after barbecuing underneath overgrown peach trees,
shopping for strawberry lip gloss at mall city
now laying in piles of clothes,
behind brown leather sofas,
in a chipping bath with a jug of Hennessy,

his hollowness followed me in midnight internet schemes
where i thought love would soon be
only to find men calling to make more batter
and i soon, became a women of locked lips
answering with clothes off, her hair *******
in attempt to make a new white picket fence dream,
half in between

i stood on the wide, dried green field, holding my gaze with the piercing green eyes locked on me. they bring full flooded memories of what used to be. his hand holding mine flashes before my eyes, myself slipping out of bed with him fast asleep behind me, and the nancy drew book slouched between our pillows. the walls close in on me, and the drowsiness tilts my head up only to hear the trailer door slam shut with footsteps running away. it slammed shut away in my head, where i am back to standing in this field. he is now running towards me and I am running far far far away.

everything feels so achingly far apart
my hands outstretched, grasping what once existed before me
time flies, they said—
but this much?
this fast?
so soon?

it was just yesterday,
or was it years and years ago?
when i was just a kid—
“when i was”—
where did that line come from?

it follows me,
creeping into my dreams,
where echoes lay
the cold sweat wakes me,
my words spilling
into the mouth of the toilet bowl

another day passes
where i try to do everything
but scream

what a voice, an adoring grin
warm hazel eyes that welcome sunsets in
a laugh of blooming jasmine
from october’s touch to march’s kiss
spoonfuls of honey warmth by a cup to sip
a blushed smile like a spoonful of peanut butter
grasped by the hands of a child
hair that is messy and soft
arms to pull me in by the waist
soothing and pure cheer
in your love

she held the cigarette between her index finger as if she was pointing towards her next foreseeable victim, but shortly it was blown out, the remaining ashes lit at the end of her tip. her cardamom eyes simmered, square but foundational, a million could love her.