the edges are creased. weary wrinkles spiral down. the iron is in the arctic. heat cannot remove these flaws. you put some red, i put some white, we mixed it together, and the white wasn't bright. we made an ugly tongue pink — with bumps and sores and blood turned flushed. the dryer cries. he cannot do his job. god will not wring it out. you're behind the door and by the time i open it, there is only a wisp of us left. i keep the wisp and you arrive. you keep your reds and i will keep my whites. pink doesn't fit us.
