i spread like butter on the sidewalk.
sessile;
like the moss that took root in the cracks
in the pavement

i decide too late i want a little girl.
i'll name her vada jane,
and you can kiss her when im gone instead

metal screeches
drivers stop to
rubberneck.

they don't see me.
they see my vada jane.
she's kneeling over me-
she's beautiful, right?
she shines like oil on asphalt

im dull like blood on moss

(when i think of you
i can breathe
you are real)

2. She died a few days ago. I went to the funeral, saw all her terrible friends with all their moon sized pupils and cracked teeth. The body didn’t even look like her—I wouldn’t have known it was her if it wasn’t for the scars. They didn’t cover them.

Mosses persist, despite their size, because of their biological resilience. They are structured to survive in the most extreme climates, able to retain enough water to keep them alive even for years of drought. Even a 50-year-old dried moss can be revived with just a splash of water. She reminds me of moss. I kept thinking, if I could just sprinkle a little bit of coke in the casket her carcass would soften and shoot up like a tulip in spring.

This whole thing has made me realize that humans are not as resilient as I’ve come to believe. Things are different when you bleed. The last drought killed her. Once you dry out, you are dry forever.