I will stick Post-its

to the wall behind the sink.

I will spatter them with soap

suds and water, let the ink

blend into a paper mâché mass

of every word that picked me up

off the floor. I will leave dishes

in the sink.  I will not wash them

before I load the dishwasher.


I will take the crosses and bible

verses off my wall once the party

is over and trade them in for messy

watercolors, prints I will find 

in the bargain bin at the thrift store.

I will leave the top shelves of my cabinets

bare.  I will not buy a stepstool

to reach them.


There will be oat milk in my fridge,

no certifiable cheese drawer,

and apples that taste of the fall.

I will ask you to go to the grocery,

I will let you fill the cupboards

with love, with smashed avocado

and sourdough and nectarines and the cookie 

dough I did not put on the list. 

I will let you make me tea,

lavender and mint to soothe my aching

mind.  I will let you take care of me,

and I will not repeat the mistakes

of my mother.  I will come home

after an earthshattering shift without

delay, I will ask if your day was restful.

I will let you go to the grocery store.


Katelynn Paluch

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