𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

set a mousetrap in winter

cut this fucking poetry shit. when i was about seven i held a salamander in logan, ohio. i slept on carpet at an auntie's that smelled old, with my brothers and a memory foam pillow. they had a puppy named chocolate and my room didn't have a door. we played the walking dead and pretended to be zombies. i went to school there, the sign in the back of my first grade class had an incorrectly punctuated dr suess quote. i read a book about a girl finding a unicorn and running away.

i used 'jesus' as a curse for the first time in the master bathroom of that house, when i hit my head in the cabinet. i still have the narnia set my mom read us at night. i had three brothers for a few months; i didn't understand yet how men and desperate women interacted. we bit open glow sticks in a closet and splattered them everywhere.

i see a hundred trees, about as thick as my wrist, and stripped bare. there's snow on the ground but it's melted enough there's rings around the base of each one. i remember sledding. clear windows with clear light and empty skies and. making up stories of pizza with pepperoni in the crust at the table. i had a birthday there, lent, maybe an easter egg hunt.