the vents in my grandmother's old car blow
cigarette smoke at my left knuckles
and right forearm.
there's something so cold about crawling back to the house and home
where Caroline kicked me out for borrowing her water bottle
rinsed off my vandal lips and refilled it with salted caramel vodka and Caprisun
and in the wind whipping by I taste family tradition,
vanilla and tannin kisses into November backroad air
as my breath swirl, swirl, swirls silver I cannot help but wonder if now is a good chance to spiral
my dehydrated veins spilling like a fog machine in October
Put a stopper in that.
I will not flush myself,
watch my dignity spin like two and a half glasses of rosé after mandatory mother daughter
If I get breathalyzed, the officer's results will read ice cream sundae
the way I am an estranged co-parent housekeeper decoration therapist middle child January
I'll get let off free before anyone remembers
maybe I want water
and I am sixteen
and I am a mother of two but I don't have kids.
and my birthday was yesterday. you still haven't remembered.