matchbook

e enter the store with purpose, unassuming, heads down. We begin with the shampoo, drizzling honey-colored patterns on boxes of hair dye, filling the nooks around nail polish displays, but careful not to drip on the floor because we don’t want to hurt anyone, just make a mess, maybe ruin someone’s day. We grab handfuls from the bulk candy bins, stuffing our pockets, shoving some in our mouths, making chipmunk cheeks. We rush through the magazines and rip out pages with all the boys we love from movies and TV shows and bands and later cut out their faces to plaster onto the walls of our bedroom. We send each other signals when we’re done, no one noticing our freshly wet n wild lip-glossed lips as we walk out the door. No one knowing we’ll go back to a dark house where we search the kitchen, remembering forgotten birthdays when we find expired piecrusts at the back of the freezer that we eat smeared with chocolate sauce for dinner, imagining someday we’ll learn how to bake them into warm pies filled with fresh fruit that we serve up in our bright houses.