I wear yellow when I visit my aunt
he tells me I can and I am an empty page already creased twice over,
edges sharp and corners folded because I trust the hands to create something intricate
and beautiful
(something not me)

You can write anything in between the indelible lines and the ink
will only sink in deeper by the second
there is an ocean of stories bubbling underneath this empty canvas and I
am happy in just the act of having the sharp edges of the pencil
emblazon the untouched plateaus

In August, I buy an orange bag for the patchwork
I don't undersand how the numbers keep lowering
from 200 to 22 to nothing and then 14.
There is dismissal when I panic

I still trust the hands moulding the crinkled pages
I don't believe in a god anymore
I delete sent messages so I can pretend I never said it
I cry myself to sleep

There are 5 new shades of red lipstick in my drawer
I stop saying I love you the way I meant it
I don't want to think of my highschool crush
I try to forget being tongue tied when this girl danced
She says it's a fetish and I stop thinking out loud

The numbers are down to 7 and 5.

The bruises from being folded twice over so I could look good on the mantelpiece
turn purple
He denies, hunches over the pandora's box so I can't suck out more of the treasure
The hands turn to a newly pressed empty paper

I own 3 grey jackets and a black witch hat.