Stolen utensils heavy in my purse and little packets of sugar in your jean pockets, just because we liked stealing, liked tilting the sidewalks we stood on and gripping the dirt a little tighter with our heels. We’re changing, that’s what we’re doing, waking up a little and feeling our sleepy bones hum to life and pinch our skin tight with shaky laughter. Wonder and laugh at myself and steal sugar, yes that is what I’m going to do for the rest of my life. I will fix the rips in my purses the rips in the sky the rips in my skin, terrorize coffee shops, and spend the rest of my life convincing myself that I am a human being, one of those things with sleepy bones, one of those things that changes every so often, wakes up from time to time and finds anarchy and poetry in their souls, in other people. I haven’t figured out how to do that yet, so I’ll start with changing the world, probably, because when I slip a spoon into my sleeve, that is what I’m doing, tangentially. Everything’s tangential, barely brushing my fingertips but colliding directly with my bones, awake and alive, from the inside out. The chaos, the possibility of chaos, the charm of stolen sugar packets—I’m listening to my own echo. Pockets mean more than people.
