She slammed diary secrets into medicine cabinets
and told herself, "Never again."
Awaken to the sound of regret thumping and calling all cars.
Is this time collecting for the last time?
Or do I have more footsteps I can take on walkways alone?
This is me struggling to keep my make-up and
not switch to super glue.
[maybe if he can't move, he won't leave]
After every portrait of a lying heart,
I run away with a Sharpie marker,
labeling what's mine.
My outcry is spoken through cardboard cut outs
and bright red yarn.
I'll wear my letter A when I'm good and ready.
And if you choose to fence me in,
I'll bring my crowbar and bad intentions.
Honorable mention
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