i like your texture
when you feel guilty about the colors on your face in
the orange ford pickup truck
we pardoned ourselves but didn't bother to speak much
a bobby pin or two leaking out of my head
my interchangeable pieces:
the occipital and such
how could you know that though?
you feel bad about other belligerent thoughts you have about my
singing in the kitchen
my unaccomplished cartwheels
my faltering mind.

but you trade me in
anyway
for a new one.