dried paint sticks to thread on jeans, she

picks at it but knows she left the detergent under

the bed, the plaster holds too tight anyway. she passes

the perennials, not watered, they

keep growing. remembers brick walls layered with graffiti, and

wonders if she should peel off the paint or peel

back her ribs instead and grasp her fingers between the

vessels so she can lend her heart to preserve the pigment sprayed

stories. look past the fog, neon signs, slick with rain, flicker, and restaurants hold

their breaths. the oxidized machines rumble

with the thunder. she preaches that models are fake,

but spent hours learning to mix colors,

paint drips onto her jeans, it won’t come off

wanting to perfect the shade of her reference’s features. Delineating

the curve of the girl’s lips, she thinks she might

be in love, and so she prays for rain to let the daisies grow

while she waits for notes of confession. in the meantime, she

counts her acrylic chips:

she loves me.

she loves me not.

she loves me…