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

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