we're thirteen years old and built with bones
that haven't slid into place yet. stupid children,
nobody cares what we have to say. we're the
offspring of spring and we're offsetting the sheets,
crumpled fists pounding out insecurities and fears.
we're nothing but imps with wicked grins,
dancing with the fireplace and bringing fire to this place.

we laugh at those who don't comprehend, exchange
glances beneath fluorescent lights that just commend.
we skirt around the truth, pretending we're okay.
we don't know love. society tells us we can't know love,
to turn love away. we don't listen, 'cause society
doesn't know what to say.

we're thirteen years old and we can't slide into place.
and.
i drum my fingers on the desk as i watch you, wanting
dearly for this desk to turn into the curve of your thighs,
craving dearly for this pain i feel to turn physical and
turn onto you. they say, lust is a sin,

but so are you.

(we'll turn this lust to love one day,
these wretched streets to gold.

just like the waves are turning into the sea.)