pink straw tracheotomy

the dutch bros line is too long but i still pull up,

clear the shit from my passenger seat to pass for whole

so they crawl out of the window and they come right to me—

i say just want a red bull with strawberry and

she says that’s it and she calls me girl and

she tells me you’re so easy and

i know she doesn't mean it like that, but also it’s kind of okay if she does,

you know? she seems chill—kind of the highest praise you can give

to someone in Northern California—since i know that i’m not built the same, that

if i shrunk down to nothing, stripped myself down and abandoned my skin,

i could nearly aspire to resemble chill. they say people look like their dogs,

and i would be so good at screaming every time anything left.

she also says you’re so nice and i say fuck please give me something new—

and i guess she wants the same from me.

i tell her i want to be jumped, more like an old camry than a person,

not not in a rough way, and i tell her i only wear viva la juicy

to pavlov millennial men into free shots, and i’m going to age like iggy pop

because of the soft brine of a life done right, and i tell her i

thought i had a tumor because i didn’t know you could be

in so much pain without actively dying

but to hit me up if she’s into living proof,

that my nose piercing never closed up after the CT scan,

that i’m always waiting—you can pierce me right here,

i say. and here. and here—

i’ve saved you a seat all this time.