Читать книгу Exhibitionist - Molly Cross-Blanchard - Страница 13

on a snowless hill, fifty metres above the Pacific?

in eighty-dollar rain pants and a North Face jacket?

with a Fjällräven full of childhood trauma, under cover

of the bus shelter?

walking backwards through Thunderbird Fields at midnight

(pretending it’s the prairie?)

spotlight full blast

(pretending it’s the sun?)?

at Kabro Salon, for the sake of touch and the pressure

of that black porcelain sink on your spine?

lost in the forest of Netflix suggestions starring Kristen Bell

or some other white lady?

sleeping, but not dreaming

of anything worth crying about?

always gasping awake to some sharp sound?

with permission from the new peer group?

through a pucker-mouthed smirk and wool?

in a cupboard full to the top with plastic grocery bags inside

plastic grocery bags inside plastic grocery bags?

far too carefully? or with reckless abandon and kisses

blown east out the bedroom window?