It was wrong of me to cry. A good cry. Unwanted.
Wanted to make the fan dust dance around the ceiling nooks.
Instead they fell at my feet. The neighbors all had a laugh
about flowered dresses and messy hair buns. I couldn’t drink
the whole whiskey bottle so their youngest son did.
On the news it was all plasti-coated. Like we were aliens.
Thinking we didn’t have neon night vision. At some point
that night, I stopped existing.
It was wrong of me to wear red stockings during the war.
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