Sometimes I feel like I just need to say things:
like yellow is my favorite color.
I prefer cloudy days over sunny days.
When I was young I mixed milk and maple syrup
and drank from colored cups
like shots
but I didn’t even know what shots were—
and I came from some careless sperm in a ghetto.
I’ve always wanted to own a rock tumbler
ever since seeing Jennie Isaac’s fourth grade science fair project;
and how roses make me lonely
because it seemed like every girl
got a bouquet on Valentine’s Day
except for me
and how no amount of flowers would ever make up for it
and how vain and stupid and self-centered
I think I am—
except that I think all feelings are vain and stupid and self-centered.
But most of all I want to tell someone
how my two favorite things in the world are you
and the sun in the winter through the dead trees
at dusk
and there’s an orange glow
and you’re driving down the highway
and there’s just these blinding bursts of light
in and out
of the bones of the branches
in and out
and everything is illuminated
in quick sudden flashes—
just bathed in light