you have no right to know
how many times I will think about how
old she would be–if she would have his
blonde hair, blue eyes, cotton-candy spun lips
crow’s feet carved, as if drawn, to his dimples.
would she imitate his brooklyn accent?
his voice like glass; his open laugh, his yellow
temper or his lying? the police record rolled out
across zip codes, listing addictions.
i chose him and you didn’t
so it’s none of your business.
you may not choose for me
how many times it will take three days
to drive behind sunglasses, in circles
listening to that song on repeat, alone
surrounded by summer, but cold,
pink wine to cry yourself to bad dreams.
they whispered in samurai swords
piercing my heart, uterus, womb
as if I hadn’t bled deep enough
red, from these secret scars
into the invisible.
you have no right to know,
how it felt to be crimson.
i packed my bags and i’ll carry them.
but they are too heavy for your politics
and my old religion.
about the author
Sarasota Green lives in Dayton with a cat, a dog, and a fish, who all seem to get along fine.