You know me. I’m always a strike away
from burning it all down. Me and my matchstick promises. 
But if I work hard and don’t set things on fire,
maybe I can own a plastic house too.

This house was made to be sold. Not to be lived in.
In the foyer, one of those scented plug-ins screams
over stagnant air. We sip on wine that tastes like
polyester around a gas firepit that doesn’t hiss or crack
or burn. It gurgles like a fish tank. Michael tells me that they
want to install overhead lights in the bedrooms.

We blow out the candles, so we can keep getting older.
Do you remember Skylar’s 19^th birthday party at her dad’s?
The forest green house in Reseda with the pool? I love Skylar.
Because she’s never gonna get her shit together.
I remember it was all of them, and it was me and you.
And I was sippin’ on an adios that tasted like blue –
a drink that was made to fuck you up. Not to be enjoyed.

Years ago, when Michael was still a renter, he invented
the Au Revoir, Rat Bastard – a Long Island, but
instead of coke, you float some Bordeaux.
I never could remember falling asleep after a night of ARRBs,
but I remember waking up. Rode hard and put away wet.

Skylar and the rest went inside to cut the cake.
But you and I sat on the edge with our feet in the water.
Sapphire flames climbed the walls of the pool.
They danced between our toes. And we fell
into the blue. And I wasn’t me, and you
weren’t you, and our future wasn’t plastic.

One time I slept an entire year. And on my next birthday,
I refused to blow out any candles. Everyone sang,
then I just watched the flames
glide down the wicks
like pole dancers.

Strike me, and I’ll ignite. I’m waiting for it.
I think I want to be nothing
because nothing can be anything.

Skylar got her master’s degree last year.
Michael bought a house.
You married that ordinary boy and moved away.
Abby doesn’t know – you never told her.
(Don’t tell her.)

All my friends left by 9pm, and I’m here.
Just me and a birthday cake covered in wax.