dear mama…

— a poem by zoe pessin

turns gunshots to lollypops

and you think my birthmark on the nape of my neck is just as fine as your thanksgiving dinner plates. and you smile at my smile as if i am gold and plated ready to be served. ready or not my shoes have no grip and my hands forget their purpose when asked to take things slowly. And time is a construct but only if you think it is.

Dear mama,

i met a boy.