cinnamon thighs and daddy boys • poetry

year 8

a year passed and we still didn't talk. i didn't expect you to. nor did i want you to. mama made food for you everyday now. i'd drop it off at your green table with a juice box. then i would walk back to my chestnut tree.

i guess the bread from your lunch must have soaked all the venom out your mouth, you razored down your canines on the chicken bones, they were almost back to normal now. even more blunt than before, maybe. our food was a bit spicy for you. the apple juice helped with that.