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French braid cemented to scalp.
In your own company, immediately undone.
Loose like your self respect, untamed like the emotions
you inevitability still house near a fireplace; never warmed.
The barbie head practice that went on in silence decades ago.
Babysitter's got the basement door locked.
Bathroom breaks are not always guaranteed.
No wonder, she oftentimes forgets the head she's now braiding
underneath is not manufactured from plastic and string of artificiality.
You were never the practice, you are the result.
Stupid high school kids running around playing pretend adult.
You're now driving away from what was once, some other day, a home.
Whose?
Left to interpretation from a window looking in.
On your way back, a bonfire of trees; headlights illuminate a sign
with red and green lettering.
You scan the radio stations in search of him still,
almost seventeen years later.
No longer, a head pressed against
an inherently pink
boombox.
You have choices now.
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Sportsball Supreme Overlord Byron
You are so amazing, and so is your way with words!
ugh, you're honestly too kind
by Kathleen; ; Report