The sunset of my youth is crowded

(sunrise confusion in the shape of a

silver spoon) it's too busy licking

clean the jagged edge. Too young to

be called old (still bold) - yet old enough

to no longer be young (maybe on some

softer level I won; something.) All

together greater then myself (is me?)

Vanity the jewel across my breastbone -

so dusty that I blink rust (some kind of

wayward symptom) or maybe a tragedy

(like trust) put too heavily on you like all

those extra, unwanted pounds - the weight

of it - waiting - and my blood comes late -

straight up tell me (would you share this fate)

with me? Maybe I'm just too pointy to attract

the smooth (cream filled) buildup of "whatever

it is they're calling it these days." I'll play (the real

me) if you try to be (the real you) so soon;

commercialization; my modulation. Turn me

into a seventeen-something picture whirling girl

again. I want to spin. Binge on life until my insides

churn again; burst - I want to see it all with my

own eyes. I'm not the type of girl who cries (when

people are looking) - busy booking my pain into

it's appropriate time slot - it always showers (like rain)

when I'm not ready. Steadily unstable (and) nothings

ever good enough for you is it? I dreamt the other night

of you; so pure we fit each other's holes like glue -

navigating an as yet unmapped hue (well what if I'm tired

when it all burns through?) The kind of exhaustion where

breathing labors (like love?) it stops savoring the organic

feel (of knowing you're alive) I might contrive to refocus,

if I ever get the time. Freedom is a cage, my love, you

can see out of all sides, but never above.