Chill, black sweater, let them think you’re plain. Hopping inside but be cool. Won’t show my vigor in its vibrancy; barely slip the brightening grays, suggestive, arresting, and the weight of orange blossom nectar in the air curdles the structure of evenness: glossy, heightened, can’t subdue it. Cool it down and cover your kneecaps. First a blanket, last a bandage, a breath, but no one knows. You could own, destroy, trap in a trance called trouble. But be good, girl sit down. 

Katie Ancheta