Hardwood Floor

Mysterious girls in Geometry wearing bracelets of “My parents don’t get me” like they were Gucci. Her dog is dead. Macy’s is having a sale. A paperclip, dumbly glinting in the glow of three new friend requests. Breathing through her nose— like they do on TV—she angles— like they do on TV—her metallic ticket to Taking Back Sunday. A public service announcement told her she couldn’t Feel….Ow…Ow ow ow not even a drop of angst and it’s already time for dinner. fuck this. So she’ll never pen a compelling biography: the once-mysterious eighty year old looking at her crown of thorns in the mirror, sputtering “I thought it would help.”