“How are you[,] Miss Independent?”

Smashed green glass.

smashed green glass is what I want

to tell her when I was walking home

today. Smashed green glass scattered

around a brown paper bag, part of the

bottle still intact [inside].

No, I won’t respond directly to “How are

you?” or “How was your afternoon?” in

the generic: “good” or “fine”. Because

what exactly do those words mean?

How is it good to hear your kidneys

clanging inside your ribcage?

How is it fine to walk a mile without

smiling? Where is my smile?

Maybe it joined the used pair of

basketball shorts I wore once before


How is it fine that one of the only things

I noticed this afternoon while out

for an hour was the light reflected on    s   c   a   t   t   e  r  e  d

green glass and how I pondered what my

hand would look like rolled in glass:

A cake with shards of clear sprinkles.

I would glitter.


Back Of My Mind says maybe the bottle

wasn’t for alcohol, but ginger ale.

I say maybe my happiness is

for hire.



This poem is meant to be spoken but I haven’t been able to upload spoken word files yet. Title under construction.


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