Zoe is sitting on a park bench. The sun has already burnt her nose. She forgot her sunscreen again. Her shoulders are red. Her knees are red. The warmth is painfully loving. It aches. It scars. The sunburn distracts from the rugburn. This is all comforting. Just a bit. Zoe gets closer to you. Her favorite sound is your laugh. What’s your name? What’s your favourite color? Your sign? Your birth time? Debating the ideals of love. Questioning her codependency. Your forced affection. Zoe almost has you wrapped around her finger. Feels a pit in her stomach. Lets that pit grow a little. She wants your number. She likes that you’re a gemini venus. Also has an issue with commitment. Isn’t that straight-laced. But is not a fan of your phone. Winces at the sight. Androids aren’t her thing. The pit grows. Zoe looks up at the sky. Do you think the clouds taste like cotton candy? Zoe nods along with you. Blue raspberry is her favourite too. She feels you smile. Candy floss tastes like heaven. The texture is hell. It grows. Zoe thinks the way your hand curves is the most satisfying thing on the planet. Imagines fingers digging into skin. A bit early. Only been 20 minutes. She feels your cheeks flush. Tired of the pit growing. Zoe has a losing streak. An issue with holding hands. Shivers at the thought. Thinks of your hands. At this point, her stomach is a hole. Zoe is covering her face like a child. Isn’t too insecure. Keeps her fingers tied up in knots in her lap. Keeps to herself. Keeps thinking. Thinks she’s pretty. Can’t decide if you really are, or if she’s excited. A little column A, column B. There isn’t anything left of Zoe. Just an all-eating pit.
Zoe Gianfrancesco (she/her) is a small-time poet from Western PA. Making her name in mostly publishing, she works as both an editor on Spillover Magazine and Shambles: A Literary Journal. She loves marine biology and all things cats and is especially obsessed with her own cat, Lucy. She's on Twitter on @churchbunnie