maggie's farm

    There is something pushing at my paper edges. A sound. A girl. A sad little girl, a brown haired girl, a girl with a cigarette in her mouth and one eye closed to avoid its track of smoke. A waterfall got it backwards, got it upside down.
    We smoke in the house here; I will no longer address you as dear. But here, we favor lace, we favor black, we fill it up and air it out, and have continued in this way for some time. There’s an unapologetic bite in our sweet eyes, we call ourselves MADchen, and none of us oblige when told to smile. We tried to bake but have no butter, so we’re moving the record player. Shuffling things around the house provides purpose. We pretend we don’t believe in love because it treated us cruel, and then it did it again.