Air flowing through my lungs after forcing myself to run five miles.
Bottles of champagne.
Coffee shops owned by locals.
Dawn.
Eating disorder.
Food freedom, praying;
God, make me whole again.
Hellos, from the boy who holds my heart.
Intimacy without ever having to undress.
Jelly, smeared on homemade
kneaded dough made by my grandmother.
Laundry that I will never do, but my
mom always will.
Nights when the fireflies are abundant.
Ocean swims just as the sun is breaking.
Pinky promises.
Quietness of Sunday mornings.
Robbie.
Singing my favorite songs with the windows down.
Thin. Too thin.
Umbrellas not doing their job of keeping me dry.
Vanilla ice cream dripping onto my thighs
while the sun burns my back. I was too afraid to eat it, so I just watched it melt.
XI at night. I hate the darkness,
yearn for the morning sun instead.
Zoloft in tiny bottles.