SAM MOE

You arrive at the party last, reckless as sunflower, you don’t want the others to know you traded lungs and then some to get through the doors, everybody knows that you’re ridiculous, who else would look good wearing that citrine dress, tourmalines in your ears, you’re into honey and her cooking, you love excess and you came with the appetite, you came with the pen, the desire to cut throats, do you remember staying up late in the Slumber Hall whisking eggs until your wrists hurt, your eyeliner was smudged but you didn’t care, told your ex you had forgotten something at the store and she mumbled someone else’s name in her sleep so you left for the hotel, the chefs love when you sit on the counters, calling you bold and sunshine, skin the lemons for the dish, skip the tablecloths, take your no-bakes into the craft room, accept that the drinks you are given aren’t potions for transportation, you can write yourself out of this life, fondant fancies and bring the rum, darling don’t let lemon curd become more charming than you, don’t bring mother into this, she looked so pissed at the pool, toying with water lilies while yelling at the neighbor, you’ve left it all behind, magic and lime, threw the marriage proposal in the trash, you pretend to be strong but you’re tripping over your dress, you’re wishing you had fangs, praying to the old gods to sharpen the butter knives and the only saint who listens is a desperate man carving letters into the silverware, he stares at you from the dining room and asks why you even bother, let’s show everyone what you can do with a limoncello, God knows you can make a tasty margarita, you cry at night in your room and your ex never mailed your things, lost socks with wolves and winter orange whiskey recipes, she’s sipping a mango float somewhere and cursing you by both names, this isn’t about truth or love, this isn’t even about whether or not the kitchen is full of monsters, no, this is about how you paid your dues, swept dupe receipts and washed floors, now you’re sweetened like fruit, they let you slice the fish with your fingers, they hand you ramekins of slushie, everything sparkles and the chandelier looks so brilliant you dream daily about eating it, you save your own life and you save the crumbs from the overtakes, your coworkers and fellow servers are calling you an angel, sweet as cake mix cookies, they don’t know how you imitate art, screw the mimic and the woman at the clinic who told on you to your mother, and while you’re at it, take, in no particular order: their hearts, pants, pears and satin handkerchiefs, a drink called smash, her high heels you loved so much, discarded matches and soy milk, those kisses that make your lips bleed, apple juice, and any knives you can get your hands on.