home

erect nipples and baggy pants that make my inner thighs 

trip over the penis i dont have. Dark wash jeans, and my 

mama’s mama’s sliced sheet cake. Rotten tequila 

hand sanitizer, the gangly french woman on my commute who 

only wears sterling silver, and patches of eczema propagating 

across my hand. the square cut of my nails. 

I used to live in a color-blocked house where 

my soft nipples never saw the outside of my bedroom. My belongings 

have moved. Seen the milky walls of postage boxes restlessly 

jostled by the boundaries of a few beaten cars. Loved

a few jagged doorsteps since then, too.

the perfect stapler grip, robust cordless speakers minute in size, northeast 

tennessee, and three months of stolen lunch. crispy bacon and clocking

into work with soft chest pepperonis pressed to the outermost layer.