by Kate Wilson
I shove a switchblade through my hand and I bleed
cheap paper confetti. We are all bound to something –
tied inexplicably to one another like a faded party
banner in mid-July, but not everything can be a riot.
I want to blow out my heartache like cheap birthday
Store candles; want to howl my apologies and mean
Them. I dream of tucking my happiness under my chin;
Call it a party hat and hold it near me;
Name myself Frankie or Marnie or something
Soft and hard at the same time.
And I do not ever want to be the reason someone
asked god for forgiveness.