I’m so confused by you. And you. And you.

And I hate being confused.

I pluck every flower’s petal I speed past.

I hope one has an answer, but all I’ve come to understand
is that purple is your least favorite color.

“Write that down. WRITE THAT DOWN.”

Don’t judge your fella for doubling up on denim—11th Cowboy Amendment.

You told me you’ve never had sex on the first date
and then proceeded to tell your entire Discord chat in front of me.

I don’t want anything serious. But come to raves with me. Take drugs with me!

We will go anywhere together. Heart heart.

I blame someone else for me.
They were smart enough to leave.

I think she posts just for me.

I’m becoming obsessive.
Or maybe I already am.

I now have memories of obsession. Good ones, too.

Stoned and dry, I wonder if I’m ready for this again.

Driving up Wisconsin is my favorite.

HEART.

Sometimes I use just over a gallon to get to Madison.
Today is Milwaukee.

SubDocta. BlackCarl. Jellicle crying and crying.
We dance through the night. Surround sound serotonin.

I’m not serious. I just hate being confused.
I’m crying and crying.
Corn Queen is so PLUR.

Someone with large plastic fangs and shaggy hair taps my forehead.
I am now your master tiger.
Three pretty femmes follow behind them.
I spend too much money on a shirt I won’t like to wear.

Mold growing in my lungs. I want to know everything about it.
It’s malignant at the moment.
I’m fascinated by its features and interests,
especially as they pertain to me.

Sunday, I think too much about you.
Monday, I think too much about you.
Monday, I have excruciating stomach tensions.
SOMEONE PUNCH ME.

Tuesday morning hustle for a one-night excursion in the fraternal city.
Five-hour drive.
I’m thinking about a career in trucking.
I still think about you a lot.
I know this group of friends I’m driving is special.

Mall of America is a… mall.
Hey Mammas Lesbian confesses something sacred at the bar on a Tuesday.
The security guard stares at my tits.
Another dude stares at my tits.
I’m playing pool terribly. I blame the table.
You’re all tits, Gianna.
I know, I know.
A man jacks off in the urinal while I graffiti the bathroom stall next to him.
I lift a marker from the Mall of America. Tag salvation.
Gianna Pussy Pop. I am saved.

There’s a moment when I’m sitting in the back right seat of an Uber
because of an unfortunate incident that shan’t be named for sensitivity,
but irrelevant to this—
I’m high out of my mind.
And the moments that bring me joy start to reflect too much on themselves.
And you come up again and remind me of history.
And I cry and cry, swallowed by bass and chatter.

One-dollar shots at Trinity.
Irish pub without the Irish pub demographics.
Back in Milwaukee.
Shots are mostly Red Bull.
It’s Wednesday.
Twenty-minute lines to get a second of Redbull.
A man wants to buy me drinks.
I don’t refuse free.
He asks me to walk his dogs with him after. At 2am?
Yeah, they like it.
I laugh at him.

Later that night, waiting for our Lyft home,
I fight with him about Beyoncé.
He lost me when his only reference was “Single Ladies.”
And why would you ask me for a hug after.
Like no.
I’m not giving you a hug.
You should learn some more shit about a living fucking legend.
Maybe in the female category.
Maybe you are a dumbfuck.
How about that?

I’m writing a book: How to Live with a Liar.
Chapter 1: Knowing the Signs.
Another chapter: The Psyche of the Liar.
A memoir of my college roommate and friend—CORN QUEEN,
a grandiose liar.

You take me to Applebee’s on Friday night.
The server is so sweet to me.
I order the kids’ mac and cheese—the only one without meat.
You drive my car around your city and show me all the sex spots.
Sooo coooool.
I’m forced to listen to your music.
Boringgggg. SORRY, IT IS. IT JUST IS.
I impress you by knowing an ex-member of Weezer.
So not serious ha ha.

Chicago birthday. Saturday night. Lines in lines, queued for eternity.
Weed makes sure I have a good time.
I finally danced.
Two girls ask me in the bathroom with them.
I often go to the bathroom line to experience something new.
They’re my friends now.

I’m offered crop dust on a house key.
Cincinnati can’t pee—too shy.
I dance and dance.
I will stop thinking about you, motherfucker.

Four of us wait. Uber arrives. I sit in front.
It’s freezing out and I’m barely wearing clothes.
I open the door and the man driving lets out a long sigh
as he moves a compensating water bottle and papers.
I say, “Sorry…” and sit down.
How y’all doing?
Fine. Good. Good. Fine.
I sit forward.
It’s warm. I’m a little high.
Without notice, the driver turns on music that soaks into my skin
so immediately and affectionately.
I nod my head.
I tap my fingers on my bouncing leg.
There was no greater sound that could possibly be played.
And we all knew it.

I only like to drive long hours.
My car and mind work in unison—airplane mode on.

I care about little else. I could drive in silence.
but I’m afraid it would lull my eyes shut.

On road trips, I pray for others to sleep.
I like to be alone.
I like that they’re there.
And I like to be alone.

I choose every song.
I drive without stopping,
unconcerned of others, their affairs become private matters.

I talk to trucks like old friends.
I laugh with them, yell at them, poke fun for them.
I know trucks. I know their moods.
Don’t fuck with the gas semis.
They’ve got nothing to lose. And less to fear.