For Gabriela

I am at the edge of everything, at the edge of the doorway. 

it’s five thirty a.m. and the grey light before dawn knows all of my secrets,

knows the t-shirts I’ve stolen and the long walks home, the feel of the sidewalk,

rough beneath the pads of my feet and the silk of my high heeled shoes, dangling

heavy from my hand. 

It knows about the bourbon shots I had last night and the cigar smoke that’s worked it’s 

tedious way into my curls. It sees the way my skirt clings indecently and how I tug it

back down to almost touch mid-thigh the way an almost good girl should. 

I may rub the remains of my red lipstick off onto the stolen t-shirt, but that grey light 

won’t say anything. It’s always discreet; gives me enough light to navigate home by, but 

hides me enough that I won’t be missed.

Not until later.

If at all. 

And I’ll sit on the edge of my bed after I smell sweet again and contemplate the texture 

of red twizzlers and other in-between things as the morning gives birth to itself

the way it has for millennia.