baby teeth

the tide turned with the decade,
when the sun’s yolk splattered 
against the roof until night rolled against my window. 
plastic gold hats and fireworks framed the end,
and so I dusted out the cabinets, outgrew all my shoes and colored pencils and shirts that didn’t show everything, locked the doors, regretted it. 
too late to turn back now. seven summers later i still miss her,

in daydreams, i swim in mosaics of green apple shampoo and hopscotch,
bubblegum rotting our molars. 
ten year sugar high, only to come down punch-drunk and spinning on the playground
where we kiss goodbye. do more than kiss goodbye. then,
home to stuffed animals and fairy lights. rinse, repeat. 
heart like a cup crushed under sneakers, 

here, in a pocket of charged teenage energy, 
the violent heat of the moment obscures features to inky strokes of eyeliner and blood pumping behind flushed cheeks. the carpet melts. 
the night is young now, but only a pillow fight later it’s time to go.
this isn’t the same brain anymore, and it won’t be the same
on graduation day, either, 
in crayon, I draw an angry self portrait and hang it on the fridge.
on my way out for the last time, 
i wade through the kitchen drowned in her ragged tears.

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