i learned young

to never have a thing i could call mine

because he’d end up writing you

letters in blue ball point pen

hand draw rose in the margins and you’d never see him again,

because he’d die in jail. or you’d lose it: your mcdonald

mulan doll that has soldier clothes under

a geisha dress i was robbed of early on.

everything repels a mind that wants,

time takes what you most desire, so i unfurled my fists

and let my first 6 boyfriends pass through me,

i let my hardest friend breakups be taken

by any streams nearby, rivers or strong winds,

i was made of the color spirit blue and the souls of road

kill animalia. i had been made of ephemeral

moments passing until i reached the last edge of me, somewhere between body

and death and the music she

screeched with her

dragging scythe across the newly paved cross streets of a new

booming inglewood, that i realized the water in

me, the vulnerable sloshing of my organs inside me, the frailty of a brain

unmoved for years until that day.

the first thing i claimed a part of me after death strolled by us, a cracked windshield, the poignant

smell of smoke, the inflamed

innards of a machine, it’s exploded organs, the passenger seat, cursing

yells, a beep. i knew i

loved him then, and wanted to hold on to him, so i double texted him.

i made sure to see him, when it all

settled and my recovery led me to his city, area codes away from the car

accident. i still haven’t held his hand

but when i do i’ll know what it’ll mean for me to be mine,

to claim life and say i want you so bad, kiss me before i

ask and live more alive.