by Sarah Lilius

I think of you like a kettle boils too long in the depth of the night, dark rooms, scorched water makes for bitter tea. And if I grow out my curls, will you leave in secret to find a place where women with short hair love the silent types? We are a messy canvas that talks to me when I pass the colors in the hallway. Years of paint start to fade or peel. Can you find the places of beauty, of happy birds where the wire doesn’t hurt their bird feet? Today I found the spot of magenta where you asked me for marriage, almost a perfect circle that beats like a wound healing, hot infection layers it clear and thick. One day I’ll try to pick it off.

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