Dear Ohio,

When I come to you, I am watermelon gum and wrinkled clothes pulled from moving boxes

I am a smile at everyone and chipped bright nail polish.

The air is clammy and cut with cold wind when I walk home from the bus stop. I pray their judgemental gazes will stop before they’ve even begun.

In two years time I am thick boots, round cheeks and black clothing

I’m convinced you’ve hardened me, torn the halo from my head

My walk home is longer this time

I take a different bus.

By the time you are done with me, I am tired.

Most mornings, I leave the blinds shut and dress in the dark

It’s cold but I’ve stopped wearing a jacket.

I can drive myself now.