dollar coffee

I sleep on crumble pieces of paper, marking my existence

the first girl I ever wrote about asks me to do it again

I contemplate all the memories of her, that I kept track of in a scrapbook long before she knew of my existence

when she was just a girl stumbling around the halls of empty elementary

fast forward 3 years and she is a tween crying in my bathroom

and for the first time, it feels as if there is a person in my hallow home.

I am decorated in pearls and a goodwill dress sewen to the fitting of my first homecoming and the dress has riped in my attempt to get low enough to hear her.

 I pull out a pen-soaked journal and my forbidden mouth reads the embarrassing lines between a poet and an emerging teen with a learning disability. and she is laughing. 

starstruck with the embarrassment of admitting the feeling of pain and my romanticism that surrounds it.

There's a type of resentment I feel or guilt for being the girl who lit the first cigarette or introduced her to a new type of healing that surrounds chaos and self-harm. Or the fact that I allowed her to resign there years after.  Using her as an example of my good doing and a constant reminder of who I once was or who I wanted to be.

we are both merging adults now and I watch the chaos pour out of her like damn that had been filled past capacity, the citizens running for shelter and the self-proclaimed mental reevaluating themselves. Her boots are pulled up past her caff and her hair is ever so changing.  from motorcyclist, road rage, consuming music, last-minute business ideas, and are plans of getting out. I always self-proclaim as a girl who always changing, yet I still find us sitting on the empty porch guzzling cigarettes and dollar coffee, asking the sky when will are adrenaline rush starts to feel like a rush again and less like our Sunday mornings.