the beginning of my heart line
on both palms
has shifted toward the index finger.
Like the beginning of love
is pointing at me.
Middle school me would know
exactly what this means,
and could detail why
the lines on my hands are moving
right along with me,
and the lines on my forehead
I think I should cover up
with cheeky, slutty, cute bangs.
Yet, my middle school self
worried about finding
a signature scent,
while I know it's just
whichever one you wear the most—
spraying the bottle
pointed at my heart
so often it's worn
a stretching, longer line,
toward my index finger,
pointing in the mirror,
saying shit like,
"I can't fucking wait
to be forty."
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