I met a girl once, 

whose hair absorbed sunlight and face repelled it.

She said she was allergic to daisies and fireworks,

armpit fat and turmeric

and, eventually, me. 

I watched forbidden flames lick her jewelry 

and turn her skin into a fireplace

as if she was made of gasoline or pollution. 

She smelled like it, sometimes.

Ivy told me that she stopped shampooing her hair,

something about “vanilla extract is a sin” 

and “what I don’t know won’t hurt me”. 

“I’m allergic to sugar”. 

In between Haldol and Sentraline, 

we passed notes in the common room

and I’d ignore the tattoo on her skin,

screaming “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”.

I was a six to her four.

Broad shoulders hate knees that don’t touch. 

Suddenly, she swore less 

and started drawing petals on post-its.

“They’ll fasten belts on your ankles”,

She slurred her words as her legs twitched.

I closed mine before they had a chance to buckle. 

Lice began to burrow beneath the skin on my forearms

and her saliva was made of pesticides.

“I’m allergic to preservatives, but chemicals will do”.

Somewhere between here and there,

I decided I wanted to like daisies. 

We ran out of post-its 

and I went home. 

Apparently, so did she.

She became nothing but bones buried in dirt on the Fourth of July

and her grandmother baked seven different pies.

I told them I was allergic.

 

m.j.e

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