solo nights, the internet, early mornings
and cereal without milk
and tip toeing in the dark
can cause twisted disasters
or the most graceful art.
i trickle with the self-loathing of my mother
marinate in the words of my father
and recite the options I had every night:
a) stay silent and disappear
b) speak loud and be a target
c) go away forever
and recite the dishes breaking
and the "vaysais" that muttered from his mouth
and the wounds of the men who would follow.
i divide my legs into nights
count the ones that had 10 digits to it or
6 tequila shots to it or
3 dinners to it or
2 uber rides to it or
1 phone call to it and
0 love to it
only an independent bitch to it.
and that is how I tried to choose c, but always chose a.