I’m in a white dress. It’s dirty.
I go for walks in the peach orchard and pretend the trees are my friends.
The pretending doesn’t seem like pretending.
I’m wet and salty, and when I feel my skin burning, I walk home.
I’m dirtier than before. Look at my nails. I’m hungry.
— Elizabeth Schmuhl, from “#17,” Premonitions
(Source: lifeinpoetry)
