Purples in the sky

Purples in the sky

LILY ROSS

The mosquitoes lick my hairy legs with their yellow tongues when it’s golden hour and I’m trying to journal or some shit. I itch my left foot on its left side and little white flowers drown in the sun’s wet skin. Red shorts say bold, casual, unopposed to homosexual activity. Some trees look green and others look gentle, and my skin is peeling tik tac toes every time I lay outside for too long or think about the way your perhaps cooks itself into my letting go.

When was a poem supposed to make sense, when does personificatio n stink like my dirty kitchen– cleaned in the morning, soiled by 8pm. There’s a spider in your fresh orange juice and it’s turning pale and pink by the minute. There’s a squirrel hanging upside down, blank teeth clacking in your stomach.

Your stomach deep throats its own ah-hems every time a teenage girl fights a motorcycle in the hours before the wind takes shape. Shapes shift from smooth circles to swift ovals, pouring cool sidewalk cracks in-between your eyes and stretching out towards the purples in the sky.