/ by Lauren Steele

Don't try to come undone

I ground a piece of chewed up spearmint gum into the couch.
I stirred cream into my coffee.
I left some bloody skin on a rock road and some gravel in my knee. 
I baked an apple cobbler.

The gum won't come up.
The cream won't come out.
The stain won't lift up.
The cobbler won't unbake.

My grandma taught me how before she died.

I was baptized in the holy waters of a stock tank pigs drink from. 
I learned how to make my eyes look bigger when I put on mascara.
I cheated on my college algebra final.
I told them that I love them, 
and I meant it. 
I would never drink milk. 
Sometimes I would walk into bars acting like I was meeting someone there, 
just so I could pretend and look pretty.

I told my secrets,
one by one, 
until I had shared them all with someone else's eardrums and pounding conscience. 
But the all the things that I thought were the ones that changed everything weren't. 
Everything was what made nothing the same.

I taught myself that before I died.