by Sierra Kruse
Sierra Kruse (she/her) is a poet and soon-to-be graduate from Columbia College Chicago. Her work has previously appeared in Hooligan Mag, Mid American Print Council, and Rookie. In her, work Sierra writes about sadness, girls, and summertime. Follow her tweets @sierra_kruse.
Every party is a fire hazard
I only smoke enough to regularly lose my pack. To regularly have a disappointing and deep, empty pocket in my time of need. All it takes for me to dip a toe into infatuation is a pretty girl taking photos of me at a party and remembering to send them to me in the morning. My parents don’t want me to smoke but won’t be around long enough to smell it. At a bar Sam greets me with unironic open arms and tells me to buy the beautiful guitar player a drink. We exchange instagrams outside, swapping nicotine stamped screens. The only people allowed to smoke should be my Grandpa Joe and Me. I end every night out thinking about her on my bike ride home. Specifically, the way she woke up with a song already in her bones. The jig of swinging toes onto hardwood. I keep telling my mom I’ll get a light for my orange handlebars but I love the way the streets look empty and under night cover. So what I wanna fuck up my lungs and smell like my family. You could always shoot me. Or wait until I’m too heavy to scream about it. Either way I will be on the back porch. Hoping my friends will wonder where I’m at and bring me a modelo. I’m sentimental like that. I look for a bleached bob in every room I’m in.