my city, my

Espresso mascara to brighten my eyes. Speeding on Dale Mabry. Raising my hand in the middle of a conversation, but the words that pour out feel unimportant and stupid. Buttoning up a dress that smells like I wore it already, and by that I mean: orange blossom, amber, soft musk, and the woods. Every season there’s a different thing to sweep off the second story deck. Sometimes clumps of yellow-green pollen. Sometimes the leaves from the oak tree along with acorns half-eaten by squirrels who aren’t afraid of me. I sweep and I sweep and I sweep and I love it. At night, an owl startles me. I watch a glass of wine get filled too tall in my glass and I am mad. I drink it anyway. I don’t say a lot. Sometimes I remember I am a fraternal twin and I feel angry. I sweep and I sweep and I sweep and I still love it. Empty. I walk to a house where food I can’t eat is being cooked and served and I want to be a bitch about animal rights but I never will except in here. My city. Fuck you and your need to eat an animal. Oh, that felt good. Fuck you and your need to eat an animal. I’m sorry. That doesn’t help my case for you to stop. I don’t care for appearing holier than thou. Take baby steps with milk. Please do. I sweep and I sweep and I sweep and I really mean it when I say I love it.