i slipped out of sociology to call my mother on the plastic white telephone. i told her i’m getting sick again and she told me what we’re having for dinner (chicken from the years before the drought when we’d race pecans in the rushing gutter waters and watch the glitter in the driveway before piano lessons) and then she told me to go back to class. it’s the only time i’ve really spoken today.
mary laughs outside with her thin-skinned hand to her mouth saying “oh no” and has eyes the color of detergent commercials, and we know not to worry and just to paint the pictures. but i secretly feel a little lonely around mary.
we look through the tiny defeated buildings made from peeling white paint and old metal. the vagrants secretly stay there with their elbows on the window sills, wishing they had drowned in the fountain of youth.
everything with little kid thoughts and naked eyes.























































































tugging your skirt































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