Now I’m brunching
on weekends
Painting black bird wings
On my face
My hair spirals
Spirals
Spirals
Like my fear of the space
Between the face in the mirror
And the women in the catalogs
And yes
Yes
I’m getting closer now
To that ideal
I scribbled in ink
On notebook paper
When there were
Fewer lines on my face
I wait in lines
For the train
Wearing stilettos
Growing up tastes like
Black coffee and
Owning four mascaras
That all look the same
On my face
I take your hand
We look like
Your American dream

The sounds of the city
Intertwine
Like the strands of a rope
I’m hanging myself with it
A new drum
Fresh out of its packaging
And I’m loud
Banging on it
The train howls
The cars roar
What an unusual jungle
Where’s my rope
I’m swinging on it

Juice from a fresh orange
Tangerine
Dripping down my fingers
Sweet juices
A flash flood
I think about
Last night
And lick them

Would you be so kind
As to remove yourself
From the space
between my ears
You’ve come
quite uninvited
And now
you’re lying there
Naked
Laughing
on the couch
Playing cards
Not paying rent
I never asked you to

What should I say,
wanderer?
Little mirror
Perched atop a green bicycle
A throne
You look like
The end of winter
A memory  
Dripping like
condensation on a glass
In the sun
Mojitos, extra ***
Sidewalk chalk
extra fun

i owe myself
an apology
for who i used to be
and a promise
for what i will become

In a drop of you, I lost an ocean of me.