The sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

I’m writing this on my parents’ couch because broke, because bills need to get paid, because my friends are taking vacations at other people’s houses. The first time I walked home I couldn’t find my street. I swear my heart’s so heavy it would dent plaster if you threw it. I’m a thick cloud of desperate running and where did I leave my other self? Feed the starving girl but don’t let her become greedy. Don’t let her out of the house.  I’m telling you man, scent memories are a scary thing when you’re shopping for candles with your best friends and suddenly you’re back in that house on that street in that basement where he said it wouldn’t hurt and it did and worse, you came back for more. Feed the starving girl but don’t let her become greedy.  She will get used to the salt, will part herself for it.  Voice like sweet, voice like syrup, voice like how you say “I met a boy!” When Alisha’s not around I try to read my own palms. I open my mouth to sing and everyone says, “Girl, shit, you got a voice for the radio." A sad boy is not your fault, not my fault, not anyone’s. But I’ll sing  to him. You kiss him or you don’t, mouth open, mouth hungry. Feed the starving girl but don’t forget about the boy on top of her, even hungrier, eyes big as fists. She’s only a window until he turns her into a door.