I am clumsy, awkward, and cloddish, with two left feet. I just noticed a bruise on my knee. I try to make up for the lack of gracefulness with winged eyeliner and tinted lips. Now, the city is drenched in red and green, decorated with stars and a baby. It’s December.
Is it the times or childhood that makes the streets brighter? I fear that my feigned gracefulness flops because I impose and exploit my pain, hoping to get rid of it. My two left feet have me stumbling and grasping, and I hold on to a solid iron. It’s the last month of the year, yet I still go back to March with all my fingers and thumbs, willingly risking my heart.
Remember the solid iron? I adorn it with three violets and one pink. Yes, I find myself in church. It’s December, and I am safe; it is only—well, change.