I gathered passive aggression in a girdle of fat. I summoned Satan in a too small sex boat and slept on your girlfriend’s couch. It’s greener over there. You spit your weight in sperm, thinking trauma was a ghost. My white trash lives in the most beautiful braid thought I have. Trauma manifests in black shirts worn backwards and a woman who loves you too much. Who knew getting what you wanted was so much waiting around and drinking beer.