Pick me up when you pass through town next time.
You don’t even have to ring me up beforehand, I’ll be ready anytime:
hair braided with blue ribbons woven in. Eyeliner smudged just right.
A picture of all-American idolatry.

When I hear your car pull up, I’ll race down the stairs,
plant face-first onto the ground, and cover up the bruise in three seconds flat.
I can show you around the farmer’s market, and I’ll pretend to know how to
tell the good watermelons from the bad based on sound alone.

Once the days get shorter, I imagine that’d be the time to start getting worried.
For now, though, it’s summer and I have hope—
hope and a peeled apple to share. I know you like them that way.
And even if I shaved my fingers down to the bone,
no matter how much blood I lost to the kitchen sink drain,
I’d peel all your apples for you, until the end of time, if it meant you’d stay.

I can be your catalogue girl if you’ll have me.
I’ll sit cross-legged in front of the mirror and chant
There is nothing wrong with me! There is nothing wrong with me!
until the sun comes back up and I can kiss you like it’s true.
Until there’s no longer a closet to hide in and I’m laid
etherized upon your dining table.
I’ll wash your hair when you’re punch-drunk and reckless,
and I don’t mind if you fall asleep on every single road trip we take. Really.

Call my voice grating. Call my music cheesy. Just call.