i wanted to live here. a place that had not been easy, or kind. i had five-hundred dollars and i was in love, and i had no other place to go. every day, a new hill to climb. loading the uhaul, poison ivy brushed our legs. i hurt my back. turned on the hose and said everyone go wash your ankles with dawn. you drove the truck north from virginia. the air a furnace. my mom paid for a mover. this gentleman had to be eighty-some years old. he unpacked the truck, then sold us his manifesto, self-published, out of the back of his sedan, ten dollars. cy and i shared my bed that night. sold poems at the carnival, five dollars. at the forgotten park, i looked for you. at the narcan station, i texted you, “i don’t know how to do this.” kids burst balloons and drops of water clung to my typewriter keys. i let them strum my guitar while i held my fingers in the shape of a chord. kids broke into my bedroom; moved my dildos onto the roof. went through my wallet; took nothing. one came around and confessed. our housemate invited him in for lemonade and promised not to tell his parents. you were in nebraska. i started writing autofiction. it was borne out of desperation for adult company. on the bus, bodies pressed against mine; i gripped the hanging stirrup with one hand and wrote with the other. my fictional self developed muscular calves and a sophrosyne disposition. thursdays, the school sent home bags of rice and plastic cups of applause. most thursdays, i took one. buses cost eight dollars a day and transferred at a different stop each time. on days the second driver didn’t stop for me, i walked. some guy, who also walked alone, called out to me. “hey, bitch.” i walked by the field where used vending machines were for sale. i walked past lovely stoop gardens. my shirt sweated through in my favorite pattern.