Sunday is for cliches
“I am not a Sunday morning inside four walls
with clean blood
and organized drawers.
I am the hurricane setting fire to the forests
at night when no one else is alive
however, you choose to see it
and I live in my own flames
sometimes burning too bright and too wild
to make things last
myself or anyone else
and so I run.
run run run
far and wide
until my bones ache and lungs split
and it feels good.
Hear that people? It feels good
because I am the slave and ruler of my own body
and I wish to do with it exactly as I please”
I am wearing a bra from Women’s Secret, second-hand shorts.