Your dad finds you in the bathroom, scrubbing
make-up from your cheeks. He doesn’t approve
of, “loose morals,” he says, “and women looking
cheap, like strumpets.” Each day you remove
all signs of what we’ve done while he’s at work.
“Pull out then ram deep,” you cried two hours
ago. He talks virtue. We go berserk,
fueled by chronic and munchies. He blathers
about sin. We invent new smuttiness
each time our tongues touch. He scowls. We giggle
on the phone. “Miss you!” “Miss you more!” He’ll glare.
We’ll meet after school; all wild and reckless
with our joy. “On my face, leave your puddle
there.” It’s still the only make-up you’ll wear.
memories of my ghost sista 