you’re always talking

and i never said a word unless i knew you’d fix me after with your tongue. your hair honey-brown, split ends. maple syrup in your coffee. your stupid friends and their back porch, the folding chairs sticky with cocktail syrup. you kissed him but stared at me while you did it, hands scrunching the front of his button-up.

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i cut my hair because

my forensic anthropology professor said our past is in our bodies. not in a metaphorical sense. if i go for a walk tonight and end up strangled on the side of the highway the scientists will find my skull, high bun attached to it. analyze the dna of hair strands: you’ll know where someone has set foot over the years.  Continue reading “i cut my hair because”