Fickle
Chelsea Coreen
The night at the bus stop
with my shoe laces untied,
bra abandoned on the dorm
room floor. I stole a yellow shirt
from your laundry basket.
First to sleep in, then to burn.
Every new apartment is a place
you haven’t lived. I scrub
the kitchen floor like writing
prayers with water. Pray you’ll never
find me. Or that you will.
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