3 years ago today


2:59 am

signs in ancient pawprint and baby-food writ;

the dusted eyes of strangers like freckles on my skin.

this is my vagabond mantra and it's stuck like tree-sap.

i'm a freshly squeezed glass of milk,

organically un-tasty and i know it.

my feet are steeltoe boots and they're learning

to punch tornados in the face; to break noses.

a jet plane holding the fifteen

personalities of me is leaving;

i'm going away, and i'll say it till it's true; 

i don't taste tar anymore; i'm carrying my

bright orange heart to keep warm in those Alaskan sunsets.

i'm finally going away, so don't worry. 

it's not about anything.

it's just that i learned

to breathe on my own,

and the air tastes so much

like Thanksgiving turkey.


© Lauren I. Sotolongo