ah... in my left hand i've got your pulse, your heartbeat thing that is running, pounding, flashing over sand--wild mustang--beat beat beat because you're out of time and i'm coming up behind and you want the thrill of standing still and feeling the beat pounding from your chest into mine. and slows down. and you stamp and tamp the ground and we both sweat and it's nothing new but always something else.

but in my right i've got what you're showing me, sliding down the wall, turning…

teena-beana types love letters to god on her mom's machine, tiny pink fingernails getting stuck between the keys which makes her wince, but she gets better with every letter.

teena-ballerina doesn't type poetry yet because she isn't sad and doesn't know her best work will flood empty journals at midnight, by candlelight, drunk on tears.

krissy-teen's got no mind for ambiguity, clarity, or authenticity but that's all right. her aunt kept copies of everything…