Mary Montezuma

My mind is clogged with abusive chemicals and memories. I am at another party, in the bathroom, darkly dazing at my makeup in the mirror. I look like a pink wolf with cartoon eyes.

Why can’t we be who we want to be?

Even when the bowl on the table is still half-full of edamame or guacamole, and the waiter has yet to come take our drink order, I’ve already begun to miss you.