Cylindrical sisterhood rattles down my childhood lane like a can. The wind was never my friend. My feral blood echoes its request for a sedative. The life within me is hot and knows no peace. My sister rides a unicycle, holding hands with everything we mean when we say, “I had a good time. Really.” My bones slide safely from my skin, prop up a Lisa elsewhere who chews snowflakes for their originality and drinks the blood of the Lamb.
Miniature Moon 