I had my luggage packed so securely
no toilleteries would burst. My black
nail polish stuffed in some jean pocket,
thongs in my ziploc, and my tickets
organized like the Virgo freak
i claim to not be. Enter my mind
to go on a rollar coaster ride.
Remeber Belmont Park? Right over the bridge to enter Montreal,
cotton candy stuck on our skin,
haunted house making us crack up
and days that never ended.
No one had kissed me on the lips then,
except for Paul,
but that was ‘no tongues’. No name
first boyfriend showed me how to
make out for one hour straight on a
an old coach at Jo-Jo’s. His tongue
felt like a lizard, and now I smile
at him at funerals.
I take charge too much,
take care of everyone except myself.
Check my tickets for the tenth time
in one hour
as if my…
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