Tell me: does a story end when you run away from something?

[There were once two girls who braided their hair together so they became

one, put bandaids on each other’s knees when they scraped their knees

on the pavement, stamped faded butterfly stickers all over each

other’s walls. Two was always better than one. Together they could laugh

mockingly whenever someone said otherwise, trace their

fingers over each other’s cheeks, wiping away tears, when they

thought the world was ending. Every night they’d ask can you see me

& slam their fists against the wall, attempting to make indents

matching the shape of their bodies, of a parallel future where art

was not the only way to remember, spitting out the baby hairs

landing in their mouths. They would leave breadcrumbs that led

to memories: dried daisy petals gathered at the height of their bloom,

baby teeth they’d stolen back from the tooth fairy, spare birthday candles

never used, bloodied scissors. They said when the body loses a part

of itself, it will never truly forget what no longer exists. We were told

not to never talk about our bodies, the shadows imprinted on the walls.

Do not dare to put your hand against them, measure how much

bigger your palms are. Some things are too small that if you

covered them briefly, they would disappear forever. It’s easy

to lose the things that create the smallest ripples in an ocean.]

No. It is only the beginning.

Apotheosis: Ghost

On a Monday, you’re cutting kiwis with a butter knife

when the signal goes out, television turning to static.

You let the fruit’s juice sting in open cuts. If your mother

were still here, she’d get all upset, say that no one

wants sour fruit. Once, you had a dream that in a past life

you were an artist’s muse, a still life of lemons & oranges

painted out of devotion. If you fell from heaven to hell,

it would be disguised, syllables you’d roll around & smother

in the back of your mouth. Your mother once offered

you stolen clothes in exchange for cut sour orange slices,

the ones from the overpriced Persian market a neighborhood

over. Those were luxury goods, she’d say, bunching fistfuls

of nylon & polyester between her wrinkled fingers,

they reminded her of home. That wasn’t here. You could

never tell if this memory was sad or not—it just exists.

Back then, life was expensive. You’d steal two dollar bills

out of a mean girl’s locker at school, stuffed them in white

envelopes & sold them online for twice their value.

Your mother always told you good girls go to heaven

when they play nicely, called her daughter an American

tragedy in the making. Have you ever been offered something

you felt like you’ve left behind, but can’t remember it?

Every so often you write wish you were here on the back

of a cheap tropical postcard, mail it unsigned to a random

address on the other side of the country. When you suck

all the juice & blood out of your wounds, keep your eyes

open when there is no reason to, you think it tastes like

your mother’s chicken, fried golden but raw on the inside,

smothered in store bought pomegranate molasses.