Moralai

cherry there’s probably a tub of old lip gloss lying around somewhere (what’s the point of that? nobody will kiss me anyway) and i’m red in a kitchen sink with blender veins and haemoglobin thoughts; dead things swelling up in the sun- i bite into it and get juice down my chin. put everything in a glass jar and hold your breath like you’re practicing for a funeral. mango juice like summers. like being six again, like learning how to swim in a village pond and trying not to let your head go under. what’ll they do when your hands won’t stop shaking? when the golden stains on the white table cloths are a