Kimmy Joy
three people recognize me in the grocery store
and they all want to know about the purple hair.
one of them calls me Angel. all of them know
someone who’s dying. seagulls at a distance,
cornfields drying, mid-october. i buy chocolate
and drink whiskey in the parking lot. everything
else is closed on sundays. swear i’m not crying
over anything but you and it feels like another
weekend two years ago when i couldn’t find
anywhere to eat and i drank whiskey in public.
crying by the grand river for hours. i needed every-
one to know i was in pain. and it still hurts. it never
stopped and maybe never will. i tell you to stop
telling me you love me, at least for a little while,
and you don’t. or maybe you can’t. i wrote a song
in my dreams last night, perfect for once, and i
forgot it as soon as i woke up. tell me you’re sorry,
but tell me in a song. nowadays i don’t believe
anything unless it’s being sung to me. angel.