Shanahan

Sometimes I feel like I just need to say things: like yellow is my favorite color. I prefer cloudy days over sunny days. When I was young I mixed milk and maple syrup and drank from colored cups like shots but I didn’t even know what shots were— and I came from some careless sperm in a ghetto. I’ve always wanted to own a rock tumbler ever since seeing Jennie Isaac’s fourth grade science fair project; and how roses make me lonely because it seemed like every girl got a bouquet on Valentine’s Day except for me and how no amount of flowers would ever make up for it and how vain and stupid and self-centered I think I am— except that I think all feelings are vain and stupid and self-centered. But most of all I want to tell someone how my two favorite things in the world are you and the sun in the winter through the dead trees at dusk and there’s an orange glow and you’re driving down the highway and there’s just these blinding bursts of light in and out of the bones of the branches in and out and everything is illuminated in quick sudden flashes— just bathed in light