Writing

I,
the me,
the oxymoron.

"Would you like a receipt?" asked Travis. The customer didn't want a receipt, and she left with her iced latte right as the sun was setting outside of the shop window. It was nine o'clock, midsummer. Travis got ready to end his day.

To be quiet more. Be angry less. Watch shows and read books and listen to music people recommend to me, and not forget. Cry, without anxiety, embarrassment, fear or shame. Trust. Bite at the skin of my lips less. Sing more.

Swallow your tears.

No crying in public.

Why are you surprised?

This has been happening since you were two.

He’s the angel

You’re not.

I'm American born and raised 

not enough pay 

I'm an American women through and through

women don’t get to choose

I live in Vermont

why does he always get what he wants

some people stay up to ring in the new year,

watch it burst like a glittery balloon

over the midnight horizon, count down the seconds

til it starts over again. they dress up,