Writing

we sat and imagined fireflies

flitting between the tops of the RVs

as the sun disappeared into muggy,

illicit sludge. we realized we both liked

 the sticky-sweet taste of summer

summer's like  /  skips on a record player, pink and beat up by two moving vans and two generations of children who danced to the Bee Gees on  /  rugs that aren't there anymore  /  i have successfully wasted three mon

you remind me of 𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕪 decay. in a pop-up cartoon store, flies buzzing around your flushed eyeballs.

𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒙𝑨𝑮𝑮𝒆𝒓𝑨𝒕𝒆𝒅 and with hearts still in your eyes. tell me whether it hurt when they loved you.

You 

love me 

fast, miss me 

faster, I ran to 

you, now running away takes 

much longer. To get to you  

There are degrees of missing you. 

Is this really what it means to be American? 

To say: Only certain people can be who they are. 

To start wars. 

To cause pain. 

To put others beneath you.