when i was little i used to run up the street. i would pick a cat tail and draw our names in the dust. the last time i came over we sat on those blue vinyl chairs your father always hated. he had grey eyes and a belt made of rope. wash your hands girls, cleanliness is next to godliness. i would rather be in the wood below or your cat or a fly on the fucking wall watching the scene unfold but i am a human on a chair with dirt under my nails. you used me like soap to clean the impossible messes but i didnt mind. not on your face, your hands, but the shadow made by your backbone. your skin is still as pale.
