My blood is dirty.
I drag out.
Past my anger and apprehension,
To the neighbor’s house with a bottle of Manischewitz,
Sorry for the noise.
Past the razor wire and the liquor store,
Head down, dial the phone,
“Mom, I ate today.”
The front door.
My hippie church, slip in.
A place where pink hair can go unnoticed.
My blood is busy.
I step back out.
Past the past. It’s a present.
Facebook says, “VK is alive.”
Headphones, I smile.
Back past the razor wire and the jacaranda tree.
Inbox, “They want to be in your skin”.
Fuck my skin, here’s my veins.
The beat goes on.
Photograph by Petras GagilasHire An Editor