Invisible Frida

Dear Hailey,

I thought I was Aiden’s work of art,

when he kissed my red patch of flaky skin from my wrist to my finger,

when he would nibble on my birthmarks from my neck down to my back,

when he would suck on the rash that surrounds my nipples.


I thought I could tie my hair into a bun,

I thought I could tie the straps of my sweatpants,

I thought I could tie the lace of my Air Max,

and just chill with no makeup on,


but I guess Drake was wrong, I’m not the best Aiden

ever had because he wouldn’t have clicked on the Instagram

app, with the tip of his thumb, while he listened to my voice

through his headset in Ocoee. He spat out his bullshit

through the mic such as


My Flower Girl

you’re amazing

you’re smart

you’re sexy

you’re my wifey


I felt like a fool when I blushed on the other end of the line,

while Aiden tapped the heart icon under your dirty mirror

selfie with your hair pressed down and your B-cup

breasts popped out like they was playing manhunt.


Dear Hailey,

you’re lucky Aiden saw you under the stars that night

by the back entrance of the Amway Center, wearing

your striped patterned flats below your ripped skinny

jeans, your crop top uncovered, your ivory naval,

your curls surfed through the wind.


It took one look, it took one night,

for Aiden to search your username and hit the follow

button, it took him one week to like a photo of him and

I locking our lips beside a tropical stream garden,

and the Dahlia he placed on the right side of my ear.


Dear Hailey,

you are Aiden’s masterpiece.


-Isis R.


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