by Sarah Dalton
There are only a few things I’m not proud of: knuckle tattoos and the nights you smelled like matrimony. In my bed, you slept in sweat, and I paced in the kitchen, practicing long division. If you weren’t the spit in my shower drain or the crack in stucco that once fit my finger, I could have loved you until you were anxious. But you’re still a Sagittarius, and I’m still in Michigan mourning over dead skin, falling in love with the sound of my own voice making excuses.
Sarah Dalton received her BA in Writing from Belmont University in 2014. She currently lives in Nashville, TN, where she works as a faculty assistant in the Law and Economics PhD program at Vanderbilt University.