I Call Right.

Dill devious surely dig it momma start star remind rewind dream foreplay replay fat bottom yoga retract downward dog velvet felt tip pen eye lined teeth white beat beat rock like your a star to the shower spout.

He fell asleep in her, he really did. As literal as you can be he fell asleep inside her, like parking the car for the night. Like putting on your pants, one leg at a moment when you can bet any more on sugar or cocaine, same substance, all substance, like alcohol and soda pop, pop, pop! You're dead. Heart disease and liver failure. Cancer riddled extremities and breast gone, lost, slipped off away. Bald and proud like baby born, head the same size as the day you were born, head the same size as the day you were born.

The same day you were born, I spoke whole sentences and sat for long periods with books in my lap convinced that if I stared long enough I'd learn to read, I'd learn to tell my own stories, like it wasn't good enough for mummy, tired exhausted and smelling like fried food, saying good night with her plastic black shoes shaping her feet square, rectangular. Dad's toes rotted like green and ogre shards, hard worker, top of silo worker, working hard, working to death. And I can only whisper I love you, in my mind. Sentiments are for the weak and dying.

The tear that hit my jacket today, embarrassed me. It was a coffee stain, an unsightly food stain, not a cold air, eyes water, walk faster, drop. it was anything but honest and I swear my hips are widening out of control, like receding waters, exposing islands and bring marine iguanas to the shores. Ink me until I feel young again.

Professor Morgan Kristy Reynolds. Would I take it, like yes, like no, like everything is something I can't complete but I've got potential to spare. And what don't you do, I sing in the shower like no one can stop me now, and I run at the gym like I might just get away. Sweat soaks through the crooks of my arms. I smell like woman and never bad. He tells me I taste good and I kiss his mouth again.

When I was young sex was sex without any consideration. My body was strong and untouched. It was beaten and pounded and rounded and wounded, bitten and whipped and held and pushed. I was unashamedly curious and mischievous, old friends still question how and why we got ourselves into middle of the river, twizzlers, tweezers, wizard of oz wine and golf cart, mobile home, after school drama. The tripping, teasing, wheeling girl, that spiked her hair and fashioned bondage pants, seems as foreign to me now as any youth subculture that is thriving. I can't feel myself inside her insecurity, her nativity, her stupidity. Like the biggest black mail one could ever carry, those awkward years weigh me down.

Double life! By senior year I was in a beauty pageant. First Runner up paid for my deposit into college. Like pretty in pink, I wore gowns and got the talent portion, and walked the catwalk. I spoke eloquently and was the only girl who wasn't skinny or long haired. I beat them anyway, taking one for the underdog, the undergirl, emerging like new days and college classes.

Masters, Ph.D. Years from now I'll wear large broaches and fantastic drapes about my neck. I'll laugh in galleries and read stories to children. Years from now I'll hold my stomach, large and heavy, and complain about swollen feet while arguing over names that need to two lines to fit.
But its just tommorrow, soon enough, and the pictures will change from birthday parties for us, to birth-days for our children. And then they'll be pictures of the house, our graduations, we'll put all our certificates on the walls and we'll never see eachother, balancing children and careers, crafts and cottage industries.

I'll make the napkin rings and we'll have storage boxes for the seasons so the kitchen will always match the times. You'll pull out the christmas box before I even ask and know that the lights go up around the window, and only you can reach that high. We'll hang mistletoe and kiss before dinner.

We'll have sides of the bed.

I call right.