My fingers feel pricked when I’m about to speak for the first time. And maybe it’s just a harder earned lemonade talking, but I don’t feel better ways to think when I’m not ready, so I’ve let my nights slow down, and I feel Georgia peaches writing for me. I gain my slur back, and I speak through slavery, because nobody told me otherwise. And I greet the owner and bow. And I meet the stable and dream. And dead or living, my fingers stay pricked, like my mind on an and-one.



















