wears mules to work because she wore out her Doc Martens.
She wakes up late and eats out. May is an orange sign in the yard.
She carries around obsidian and tells you her dog died. May

is mold in the coffee pot. She’s pretzel plate and hummus
with sparkling lemonade. May is tired, she gets eight hours, but
that doesn’t make up for the past three years. May is girl boss,

lean in, blue no matter who. May stops for every baby bunny,
wonders if her boyfriend is tired of it. She doesn’t know if a
winter lamb is a real thing, she hopes not.

May is my massage therapist asking how I carry around these
things. I don’t know, they’re heavy. I’m glad she’s here, but fuck,
how do we carry any of this?