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