There is a couch and it is where I fall. My seventeen year-old legs, bandaged with bumblebee knee socks, arch like ****** pink lawn-flamingo joints. Crookedness meets at cigarette skin thighs: grape-kiss fingerprints, like mental leprosy, projected. My eyes meet at where fingers told me to stay and where the knuckles followed.
Acorn ***** hair sleeps in a tuft, woken by the brush of a thirty-three year-old soccer coach.
My Vans grip sandpaper tape, preceding clicks: sliding up and down, like graduation day maternal comfort, like dirt-under-the-fingernails *******. Clicking wheels, sound waves smacking across asphalt jungle. Sounds escaping and reminding me of how I'll never.
I'm not in love -- not sure if I can, be affectionate towards the things I don't understand.
I'm not in love -- even if I could, I don't think I'd care like I should.