A text that read “I love you” and a follow up

to qualify what that meant. That there is

something familiar, like we’ve seen each other

in a past life. The guilt of the dream presses

into a list I make in the morning. Need to,

need to. In elementary I lie to my teacher that

her grading mistake got me in trouble, that I

was grounded. She tells me she will apologize

to my parents for causing me pain. Seeing her 

at the chorus concert, we make eye contact, I

sprint away. Later in my journal, doodling a

large black spiral that keeps getting bigger.

This is what lying feels like, I write. I add hard 

strokes until I know I won’t forget. I try to be

honest, but I have need for a different life. My

parents. I go camping with Kaylee and her

parents. We bike everywhere, to the top of the

hill, our arms wide as we fly down the dirt

path, bugs and air, light changing speeds.

Freedom is that spare feeling, and it’s quick.

No one taught me to ride a bike until I was

eleven years old. The carbon mass. The iodine

circles around my heart.