i suck the thin paper cut on (my) index finger from truth. recently reading the (body) of the bookshelf. licking the salty poems of bianca stone. cuddling the correspondence of friendship and encouragement within “letters to a young poet.” buying excess band aids as i flip the pages of leora tanenbaum’s “i am not a slut.” the word spat on street corners near grocery stores and in school hallways. the queasiness of this word like chewing on a nerf bullet. during my afternoon of rooftop picnicking, i stare at the (composed) sky and think of childhood museum visitations. women who fell from the sky. the unembarrassed lines of figures in folds of fabric dripping from limbs. the surprise of wall to wall stone or pigment. and the DO NOT TOUCH signs. educating the value (of) supervised artwork. if only the average person walking down the street also realized themselves as precious (art). as profuse societies. just some thoughts.