right and up and down to
unlock the treason buried under her bed,
next to the tattered copy of her
BMW owners manual.
She ripped it up and gave
a
page
to every kid in the neighborhood because she didn't believe she deserved it anymore than anyone else.
Truthfully, she deserved nothing less than everything.
By night, she would stencil
words of encouragement on electrical boxes
that told everybody to ask someone to be their valentine and nobody to end their life.
Everyone was beautiful.
Everyone was beautifully flawed.
Everyone was beautifully, flawlessly imperfect in her eyes.
She was decked in decadent pearls, fished from the nickel machine at the local arcade.
She wore clothes that were handed down from
a grandfather to
his son
to the thrift store
to a garage sale then to her closet
because she took the time to wonder about the histories woven delicately into the ripped up yarn of every sweater she donned and every shoe she slipped into.
Always wet,
always warm,
always smooth,
always effervescent,
she smelled like Sunday morning,
the sun kissing your cheeks,
when you realize that there's no school the next day.
She's a lost weekend that you found in the back of your closet and decide to cash in every morning until the sun ceases to rise and the moon stays out.
Even then, she'll be escapism, wrapped up in yellow, tied with a bow, and dedicated to those need her most.
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