I’ve crocheted so many lies onto my forehead,

but at least the letters aren’t scarlet.

Drips of violet and quartz smothered sores

dry onto the center-palm kingdom,

and I am well again. I am young.

My smiles are not of weathered wax carvings

any longer,

but my eyes are still emerald turpentine glistening down

dark circles, however.

Old age is now obtained through ever-existent youth…

and the blood stains, so aged, yet floral and brightly draped

over jagged eyelets of unimpassioned stardust.

Sighing can only further destruct obvious answers

to faintly burning questions…

and breathing this all as a lullaby,

I am well again. I am young.