Our “I”s. They are multiple. We shuffle them often as we like. They can tag us. We can untag ourselves. We’ve got our to-be-looked-at-ness oh we have got it. We peer and cross. Go lazy. We’re all girly. We’re pretty selfie. We write our poems. We write our manifestos. While sitting in the photo booth. While
I cannot wait for fall parties. The invitations have begun to roll in. I used to think I loved summer parties until they got this year so sweaty and sad, the whole world away at the shore, sunk in sweet and salt. Goodbye, summer: you were supposed to save us from spring but everyone just slumped into you, sad sacks pulling the shade down on an afternoon of a few too many rounds. Well, I won’t have another. I’ll have fall. The fall of parties for no reason, of shivering rooftops, scuffed boots, scarves with cigarette holes. I’ll warm your house. I’ll snort your mulling spices. I’ll stay too late, I’ll go on a beer run, I’ll do anything to stay in your dimly lit rooms scrubbed clean of all their pity.