I tattoo my man’s name on the stiff breeze, and let it tousle the chimes I call my hair. The radical politics of spanx. The gross speeches of spectacular leeches. My man once brought me chocolate along the sylph like river, and my eyes glowed like a cloudless blue sky when he fed them to me gently, enticing me to remove my shackles of shame. His name is on the wind and travels parallel to the sea, daring storms to look at me. Sapphire encrusted coasts look jealously at the warm lines of my publicized body.

Calamity rides a yellow bicycle down a facsimile of a country road. Along the dusty edges, market stands offering the juiciest news and freshest betrayals. My house is at the end of the road. The windows glow blue like dead computers, and inside my ghosts are serving me brunch in their red checkered aprons. I didn’t invite Calamity. Only the stupid do. But she will come anyways, flinging the carnations in her bicycle basket into my outstretched hands, demanding to know where the bathroom is.