I have a theory that thirty-degree wind tastes different in March. 
Like having forgotten yourself, before the frigid wall of used-to-be winter
Have you heaving until you remember 

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I have a theory that every time my dad woke into a bruised dawn 
And drove four hours north he forgot me because he had to 

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I have a theory that the more we intellectualize our happiness 
The horizon grows sharper with untouched feelings and it becomes 
Harder to familiarize ourselves with another day 

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I have a theory that whittles away at the vacant caverns of my fleshy heart: 
That everyone is fifteen, everyone is so fifteen that the road no longer feels like gravel 

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I have a theory that I was the translucent wine and the plastic cup too 
The oven left hot and my brother’s icy rage 
Even though I was actually it’s going to be alright 

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I have a theory that guilt is never an act of love 
Despite its softness, lies sticky as it awaits a balm of forgiveness 

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I have a theory that it doesn’t get better until it does— and then it doesn’t 
All of this avalanching in slow motion like waves, like the slow winding hand 
Spinning cotton candy around a paper cone

 

 

 

 

chloe is a sixteen year old from CA, USA. in her spare time, she enjoys learning how to cook dishes from different cultures and (guiltily) reading trashy romance novels. her work also appears in aster lit and numerous anthologies.