ƃop ʞɔɐlq ƃop ʞɔɐlq ƃop ʞɔɐlq

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.


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