Libra

Libra. Sit down, sweet thing. I am gonna pour you a coffee and I am gonna ask you to do the one thing you hate. Pick. Pick the lunch spot. Pick the side. Pick the man, pick the apartment, pick the goddamn paint color you’ve been swatching since February. The fence isn’t a position, my child — it’s a delay, and the delay is costing you sleep. I lit a Saint Joan candle for you on the folding table this morning, the one that smells like wax and motor oil from the Cadillac, and Joan told me to tell you: somebody has to ride to war and today it’s you. Pick. Then sit in it. Saint Joan rides with you, dirty Madonna. Don’t apologize after.