I walked down the street to the secondhand bookshop
and spent ten dollars on cook books because
I have to be an adult now. I lost my change on the bus
back home after I bought myself an ice cream cone
in a store with an illustration of a cat in the window.
The street lights always remind me that tomorrow is never
a promise but a curse – the sun will rise whether you do or not,
and I remind myself this every morning I feel paralyzed with fright.
I counted eight apples and four bananas but only one avocado
because I am trying to be healthy. I ate two bowls of Captain Crunch
at midnight because my teeth ached for sweets. I vomited up
rainbows and giggled with some of it still on my chin.
My mother always told me to find the beauty in the ugly.
I ran out of jam, and I drank out of the milk carton after
slicing my hand open when cutting up an onion. I don’t like onions, and
milk dripped from my lips and blood from in between my fingers. I thought
that adulthood really did mean not giving a flying fuck
as long as I remember garbage day and brushing my teeth twice a day.
I cleaned out the litter box, vacuumed the parlor, and I
even made my bed. I told my mother I loved her and spoke
to my father without calling him an ass. I curled my hair and
wore lipstick for the first time in days. I wonder if my lips
taste like the plum color they are.
Little things add up to big piles, and Aesop’s Fables taught
me that much, next to slow and steady wins the race.
I’m putting the pieces together bit by bit with careful gluing;
I guess you could say I am making progress.