Perpendicular to the scars, demonstrate linear propriety across my thigh; I’ll even-exchange a lesson in opening eyes & closing legs.

The chairs in the back are still made of sugar-plastic that dissolves in the rain, rubs off white powder while kneeling to show love. And that suction cup’s been stuck to this window since Mom moved back into Dad’s room.

No one taught me to sew, no roller coasters, no dentistry, & the ocean was brought to my feet at age 12, but my wisdom teeth escaped & careful stitches hold my coat’s sleeve together.

Favors begged of light & shadow, bartering to skew perspective, or at least suggestion. In importance of the night-to-day, they forgot me.

My barstool is now off-white rug over off-brown carpet, & you’d note my sock shining through the lining of my skirt, cross-legged.

Skin here ripped & digital ink fell to illiterate, but you spend a lot of time trying to hold my hand.

 

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