I cruise to the WayBack Machine
combing through universes
where we are still living.
I’m alive in every place we’ve been
and it takes a toll on my lungs.
I scroll through pages,
filtering out sleepovers where foreign mattresses
bent secrets from the mouth of my spine.
Portraits of smokes are seductive,
but they burnt my nostrils at parties.
Bruise of my first heartbreak in the back of my throat.
Same old stories of the same arm, broken in the same places.
My grandmother at her kitchen table,
but she grieves my straightener burnt hair and dye job.
Paintings of alleyways in my old high school.
I know they’re ivory bricks now.
Too many kids roamed into promises of color,
never ricocheting home.
Not saving Friday nights for my childhood dog.
I beg God to resurrect my oversized pajama t-shirt.
I’ll stay with her this time.
I land at a bonfire where I can see everyone’s face
clearer than any hallucination.
Bare feet and hard lemonade,
dizzy with toothsome bites of us.
If tabs aren’t exited headlong, all magic is ruined.
Despite fever coated warnings,
I crack open my cursor.
Swiftly, everyone remembers
I lost her sweatshirt that night,
but instead of unbraiding me, they spit out,
“your teeth are growing in backwards.”