the goldfish smell isn't just in the van, it's in my skin, my hair, part of me now, a permanent aroma of tiny cheesy smiles and crushing defeat, but then they hold my hand, and it’s like, maybe i’m not just a snack dispenser, maybe i’m something more, the lilacs are trying, really trying to cover the scent, and i almost believe them, almost. chris asked about painting, the old easel gathering dust in the garage, did he NOTICE something shifting? it’s like he saw the kite string going slack, like he felt the breeze change, the way my shoulders aren’t quite so...armor-plated, but it scares me, the thought of brushes and color, of a space that’s MINE, will i even recognize myself? i don’t want to find out and i can't wait at the same time.