Apron

My place in line is prefaced by mothers in love with their children, suffixed by young girls in love with their drugs.

Much to my dismay, I’m both of the above – a childless mother and a junkie undercover, a girl with dreams of two worlds converging peacefully.

(I don’t think that will happen for me)

So for now I throw the nurture where I can and instead of a babe with a reminiscent face I cast my love at those with matching souls, making goals with forced ambition and one foot stuck in the kitchen.

The apron strap cuts into my neck, a welcomed weight, a chiseled roadmap to the domesticity of my dreams.

But I’d prefer to dwell on orange and bustled pants –

a bowl cut and a mindfuck closer to the shrinking of centimeters between skins. 

A quiet grin, an outletting of breath before the shedding of mortal coils begins.

I am not your mother or your lover, but I would sweep cool fingers across your heated forehead. 

I was a tree // My apartment