Mitzy was poking her peas around the plate one night at dinner. Her parents exchanged a look, silently asking the other which one of them would ask their daughter what was going on first, like an invisible game of rock paper scissors, before one of her fathers cleared his throat. “You got a grievance with the peas? You are moving them around your plate with an air of disinterest and I thought they were your most favorite...
she took herself away too soon at sixteen could’ve given a single try to what she was but it wasn’t her call a tattoo of a finger around her face i must’ve looked for her five times, maybe more she said she wanted everyone to see her middle finger she didn’t care she cared so little that she didn’t care to stay alive ended always with a trumpet in the skies the hats I wore when I was sixteen the backpacks like rabbit ears...
nothing what am i that just that i feel it real deep under the skin above my scratched fingernails that smell like your smell your baggy clothes oh they hide you and your shapes like a secret of a friend stabbing a friend in the back you don’t wanna say it you’d rather staple your tongue right beneath the bottom edge of your speaking terms listen your knees crack again like the bones of the dead like mine maybe I am dead...
