she ain’t got no money. her clothes are kinda funny. her hair is kinda wild and free. oh, but love grows where my suli girl goes, and nobody knows like me.
and their eyes gravitate to her silhouette like needlepoint to polaris.
acolytes to her altar.
for a moment, the room holds its breath, a collective inhale. just waiting for her to grant them the mercy of release. —
it all ached, violently and suddenly; memory opening gates of flood water, wave after wave pounding against the brittle dam of my skull. how could i have forgotten? no, how could i have willed myself to forget? to drown the memory, of—him?