I fell in love with everyone in a snap, needed attention, was reckless in sex. Even Kyla asked, “who haven’t you slept with?” Cincinnati is small,
I am drying my wings. Rippled, my full cup, drains. I get mad and bloom open with haste. I could blame my mother for haunting me, ruining me. At my age
she had two kids, was alone. I want to understand, but this dumb head I’ve got misinforms me about expectation. I do not remember 2016,
or the last time I saw Ferngully. There’s no proof, only time and tireless self, butted against an identity told to me the next day. I was a woken nightmare. I was no light in the attic.
I was doing rails of cocaine off a toilet, just before a threesome. I was that girl yelling at the whole bar for not celebrating her birthday, then had to be carried home.
I was that girl who furiously wrote lectures, left a religion, gave up her ghost to endless one night stands, finding how easy sex is, how hard men are
in the silent din of 4am. I am cynical and polite and personable, and cut up in many ragged boxes. I am not my mother. I am sorry.
Millie Ferguson was born in Portland, OR and has since resided in various parts of Oregon, Utah, Texas, Cincinnati, New York and Kentucky. Millie graduated from Art Academy of Cincinnati in 2015 and is currently pursuing an MFA at Bennington College’s Low Residency Seminar. Her work appears sporadically as sculpture, installation, electrocution, performance, word-working, nonsense and merrymaking. She is not left handed and weaves as truthfully as she sees fit.