I had forgotten what to get in this dairy aisle. Maybe nothing I guess. It was everything I had to do to not look obvious about following you through Mr.Salawa's bodega. How could you be such a beautifully hopeful thing to me? It's easy to recognize you as the last body type I'd ever be attracted to. I'm pretty sure I don't like your california hairdo or your out of town shoes. And your repetitive consonant and two vowel mumblings tag you as un-stable, broken. Yet you walk like a savior to me and I must follow. I can hear your mumblings (the mm-hmm, the mm-hmm, otah-mmm's) echo off aluminum freezer bins and along the sides of the stacked milk cartons. In my head, I imagine you turning around and asking me to kneel. Right there, on the dirty miscolored tiles of the 3rd street grocery, you place a brown-skinned palm on top of my head and heal me. You take away the voices. The bright blue lights that hide under my eyes are dimmed a bit. You take away my misunderstandings assosciated with knife play and love. I would look down and, embarassed that a perfect stranger just healed twenty-four years of mental pscychosis, thank you with teary eyes and soft-spoken mumblings.

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