By Audrey Wu

You are Mouth, undone at the corners dissolving into
balmy fissures. And you are the dimple on my car bumper,
the moon’s favorite crater, the movie-style
popcorn that I can’t stop eating
greasy and hot.

You are the castle on Prospect
Hill, the sheets shaped into cumulous sky, the
snow on the highway flatlining the
way my breath stills when your lips
meet mine.

You are impressionism, Camille
Pisarro’s painting “Sunlight on the Road, Pontoise,” blurred
lines, fogged windshields, empty
promises.

You are my fourteenth wish, the note tucked into
your jacket pocket, a cutout of your
father’s flaws and your mother’s
worst fears.

You are the reason I pick at
my cuticles, unravelling myself
again and again
until all that is left are
the strands of You and I.

Audrey Wu is a high schooler from Massachusetts. For Audrey, writing serves as a coping mechanism and she focuses on writing poetry to heal. In addition to editing for a variety of literary magazines, she has attended the Kenyon Review Young Writers workshop and Iowa Young Writers studio among others.