Dreams are like suitcases going through the baggage check, heavy and
easily lost. "We traded in our princes for frogs", a drunk woman says
hanging off her stool as she slowly drowns herself with cheap tequila
and ***** softly on a lime. I pretend not to hear her, I refocus my eyes
on the sports game and swallow an ocean of tears.

I touch him every night like I'm a flame, soft and hot- I turn
over the equator and the continents hiding in our sofa cushions.
I reach out for his arms like bands of steel keeping all my rioting
colors and shapes inside of me.

"We are at a very progressive time", they say on the news, I flip
through more news media articles about the economy, America's
bowed out again early. "For our generation", I tell them, "there is no
after party", and no one listens. There is someone playing the piano
near the bar and I'm hoping to never hear from Billy Joel again.

He comes home, his shoulders like rows strumming me through
the cold, quiet galaxy- and for that moment, I am not American,
or female or any social media label-

I am human and alive, and I'm beating down every door
until my suitcases are given back to me- empty or not.