abound—
we all are anyway.
June combs my hair,
licks the tip of lash,
thorough, the,

and.

I have taken what I've learned,
and told it
to fuck off.
a parting, I face
(I wish you wouldn't

take my words, and extract
juice from them).
meaning:
oranges remind me of vodka anyway.

but there's no time to dwell,
gloat
or laugh—
beneath an above-sea, cerulean
powder blue.

I raided the kitchen for an orange peeler,
and found one.
I knew I would.
metal gossips with forehead

(what am I doing?)

and I press,
and pull,
and peel
my skin away.

the wind just breathed new life
and I can feel it,
hot, and against my chest
inside my chest.

I pull out each arm,
leg,
finger,
toe,
surface.
the soft, heavy noise of
newfound as I place old on the floor,
covered in petrified paints, and
charcoal.

I step out, alive,
breathing, and I feel the sound
of nothing

&

everything
all at once.

I surround myself in newness, and
mend my clothes with old thread.
I take a deep breath, and I
feel lighter, softer, ready

alive.