the vents in my grandmother's old car blow

cigarette smoke at my left knuckles

and right forearm.

there's something so cold about crawling back to the house and home

where Caroline kicked me out for borrowing her water bottle

rinsed off my vandal lips and refilled it with salted caramel vodka and Caprisun

and in the wind whipping by I taste family tradition,

vanilla and tannin kisses into November backroad air

as my breath swirl, swirl, swirls silver I cannot help but wonder if now is a good chance to spiral

my dehydrated veins spilling like a fog machine in October

Put a stopper in that.

I will not flush myself,

watch my dignity spin like two and a half glasses of rosé after mandatory mother daughter

drinks

If I get breathalyzed, the officer's results will read ice cream sundae

baker-miller pink

ringlet curls

the way I am an estranged co-parent housekeeper decoration therapist middle child January

baby.

I'll get let off free before anyone remembers

maybe I want water

and I am sixteen

and I am a mother of two but I don't have kids.

and my birthday was yesterday. you still haven't remembered.