Solitary Vice

I loved a girl when I was a girl, before I knew desire could be used against me. I so wanted to be relevant. Simple exchange— bouquets of wheat. My dirt-stained hands, tangled hair. I never could be prim, in apple-pie order. I dropped all the eggs, licking their smear off my hands; wrinkled her ribbons into my pocket, tore pages from her books, all for the sake of the lonely hour.