Rights

The ghetto is covered in plastic hangers. I see them laced in bushes and floating through the streets when the harsh rains come like some pro-choice parade with no supporters. I’ve got this headache like cut glass and this constant feeling of being out of place in friends’ houses. Suburbia and society have got some connotations that I can’t seem to shake and the glass just keeps digging deeper. I hear you talking contests of who can be more outrageous and I just want to hum at you, take my clothes off and love you. Don’t ask “isn’t that strange,” give me something I can work with, not something I can work within. So make jokes about the used abortions marching down the street but don’t shy away when I pull you close and kiss you alone in the rain. I’ll strip your wet shirt from your body to expose the truth underneath and this reverse mummification will push you and I will catch whatever falls toward the ground. Empty out your pockets in a waterfall, kiss me awake, and demand something of yourself that you think might be impossible. We’ll move to the ghetto, get a house and you’ll make me feel at home.