make it like I’m gonna make it, like that woman down the pier with long brown curls and half of her head shaved with dark kohl eyeliner and lips plump with purple-fruit lipstick and beads in her hair and around her neck and from her wrists to her elbows are bangles of all colors. I bet she got called pretty in high school, probably before she got hip and weird, but afterwards I bet she got called hot, but by a different type of person, that person would probably crave her voice, how it was raspy and how when she sang, she sang with her eyes closed, lips barely parted but the words floating around her are still clear and crisp as Whole Foods’ plastic, and she was expensive right then and there, not something I’d spend money on but I’m sure someone would, I’m sure someone had before. I’d seen her before because every day I went, she was there with her jewelry and closed eyes and clear words and was lusted after by the kind of men my mom told me sold cannabis at those green-cross corner shops and still lived in their mom’s basement with cheap tapestries wrapping their dank asbestosridden walls. Men with a hunger that was easily matched, easily surmountable by a hunger that was more than a ravished stomach and a burned esophagus, a hunger for the whole. Isn’t that what I have been fighting for, four months in an attempt to be whole, and yet these men are attempting to grasp wholeness in the whole of this beaded woman with the raspy voice.