Hold Me Tight

I salted the doorways like they were Margarita lips short of kissing my fingertips–when the paper-skinned boys said they were going to break the glass ceiling, I thought they had something up their leather sleeves, something for queerlings like me. Paper oars and daggers, white like seafoam promises, cut like the jaw lines I loved. I was waiting for a storm and woke up in a teacup.

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