J| I Like To Write About My Dogs

Pretentious writers write about the whole world and

then some. They gush about the wars they’ve never

fought in, or the love they’ve never fell in. They live

on the brink of sanity, between their works and reality.

Entertain me, please, on how love is like a waterfall.

Because once you fall in, you can never get back out?

Well, false. Because hon, I know of some who have been

revived of both literally and metaphorically. I took ancient

strides to try and be like you, maxed out my library card,

for you. I thought you possessed the key to the world. But

it turns out such a gem doesn’t even exist and the closest

thing you ever had was the key to come out of your closet.

Dry and humble, I can hear outside, a machete rip. I can

tell you about, the corky fragrance mixed with the day laborer’s

sweat mixed with Maria’s shrieks because I have heard it

all before, right outside this very window. I can tell you about

the pale yellow sun that melts my boyfriend’s red white &

blue and the sawdust that vapes up into the tear ducts of

my small eyes, because I have done it all before, right in

front of my All-American red brick green lawn house. I can

tell you about Mrs. Whittington’s big fat ass that almost broke

the rocking chair during 2nd grade story time. But ask of me,

a story about love & war or hate & peace and I will have to

politely decline, and instead offer a story about my 2 beautiful

dogs.

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