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Hairy Legs

Please don’t tag me in the snapshots so intrinsic to last night.
I don’t want my name attached to a drunken state I didn’t have or
feel the need to document
long legs in dim lights.
Bar family photos aren’t the kinds of memories I want to make with friends.
Let’s go to the park or make art or
climb a building to watch a sunset so perfect
it mends all the scrapes and bruises of the day.
Officially reconfirmed I have learned
after 10pm I belong in a lake of sheets
to be stabbed by sticks of ink and to fall asleep
in a canoe made out of words.
Words that can’t be heard seem to scare people-
it’s alright to be at the bar and go on vacation with your phone, but
Heaven forbid someone steps outside and
has an intimate conversation with a book.
Something must be wrong with the girl in yellow
that she thinks the smoke is too heavy or
the people are too many or
the talk is too empty to feign amusement.
Maybe
this will ease the confusion:
I haven’t had a drink since some drunk almost killed me and
sent me flying from one bridge onto another.
Tiny strip of gravel/cement and sandbar of my life,
let me hear my mother’s voice again and
see the world through new eyes that see more.
Greater vision even by seeing less-       unmissed past times:
MondayReggaes TuesdaydanceCaves Wednesdaytrivia Thursdaykaraoke,
the chaos of the weekend as the icing on the cake.
Partaking in the sweets of such poisonous treats would be an insult
to my Secondguardrailsavior,
who’s taught so much in such short time.
I now know at twenty-four years old that I don’t need to shave my legs.
I’m letting them grow a winter beard in summer and
I
don’t
care.
I’m just glad to have hair on legs I’m glad to have.
It feels good to be a wild woman and in my natural state
with a man lion’s mane and a face that contains
no artificial ingredients or colors-
much better than the gift-wrapped version of myself
I wore for no one.

image

See those legs? Mine don’t look like that. At. All.

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