In 2015, a battle began, two factions and two points of view. On one side they said, those are white and gold stripes. The other said, no, black and blue.
“The dress” war died down but the fact still remains, your choices create a reflection. Your hair, what you wear, what you put on your pizza. Magic, or just misdirection.
I once saw a dress that was trimmed in red roses, a gold and black satin shimmer. In a dressing room stall I tried the dress
on; I looked like a Triple Crown winner.
But there by the side of my stretch
pants and pride, not to mention my sensible shoes, I saw a note on the dressing
room floor; its author seemed somewhat
can drive (17)
don’t get attached so we can just mess
up with gf
have to sneak
mom doesn’t like me
bit my lip
I don’t know how you define “kinda wealthy”. Or why that’s on the “Cons” side.
I don’t know if “probation” is why he stopped
selling, or if those eight bug bites came from the spider, or why his mom doesn’t like her.
I don’t know why I want to say to
her, Lori—she seems like a “Lori”, to
you say that he’s
smooth and you know that he lied, he’s on probation and spiders and bug bites and all that
aside—if his mom doesn’t
like you, forget how he kisses, forget that he drives.
I’m talking to
“Lori" as if she’s slow-witted, like the way
through her maze is implicit, and I’m standing
there in a dress I can’t wear, rose-clad, and looking like Seabiscuit.
You can look to the stars, you can look in the bars, you can look at the car a man drives; you can look at his tie or his shoes and take cues, you can look even while you decide.
Thick crust or thin, white and gold, black and blue, deep dish or small, gluten-free; where chaos abounds we look for control, and our choices come out of that need.
She wrote it all
down, then she left it
behind. That says a lot about Lori.
I read it and kept
it, and brought the
That says a lot more about me.