By Kelly Grace Thomas


Seven years later I stand before you with purpose in one hand

and understanding in another.

I think back to nights dirtied where suggestive glances suggested

that your gestures, measuring sticks, to show how much I had shrunk,

were the vaccines I fought to justify.

My hands used to draw this blank neon-lit night with letters cursived in abandonment.

The world runs away every night

and hides in seedy apartments with ego as a slumlord,

strapped into a lease bound fingers couldn’t unbuckle.

I stand before you today on tiptoes

clutching the  arrogance of aggregate.

In rearview mirrors I can see those faded nights,

all blue jeans and blackouts.

Isn’t it funny how the end of the road kaleidoscopes into

something new once you corners have been chased.