I clipped my clip to my shoplift shorts and lost it in the woods. I would've traded back. I couldn't go back. Every bite was becoming a great white welt, stretching my skin until I couldn't bend. The poison was spreading all the panicky folds of brain tissue. There was only one thing to do: cut my hair.
I lost it all and left it all behind. I have locks of Laura's hair still wrapped in foil. What would I do with my own?
The girl who kisses and tells and tells and tells could evade them no longer. Walking home I counted tallies: no, yes, not sure, yes, yes but straightened, no, yes, yes. Since then the count's up. One's the one I see but can't have, one's the one I have but can't see. One I stay in with, one I could go out with. I'm banking on minds beneath curls, but I am falling in love with falling markets.
The wind into the city is bold in my face. I hate pickles until April fixes them with chedder and tomatoes and I hate year's end until spring returns.