The moon painted a picture of me and she called it “hay.” The picture is my hair, sliced off from the ears down, tied with rope and slapped onto a clean, metal table. The paint makes my hair look white as bone. Horses eat my bone-hay hair and when they’ve swallowed it all, they grow wings and become falcons.
This week, I’ve been flirting with one boy and two girls. The boy is cherry pie. The girls, they are ponies, death metal. I tell the boy my dreams. Steel Pier in flames, swallowing Jupiter. The girls and I go swimming naked in the sea, waves metallic in the cathair dusk. I want this to last forever. I want to dance in the street, traffic lights in the oiled, wet road, glowing like angels.