How should the flowers grow,
if the stems are cut so close?
Coming-of-age is harder if
your hair is pulled out in clumps
and you watch them disappear down the sink
like sun rays, where you poured monochrome,
yesterday's medicine.
Your bones are tied together with string,
and those secrets, romanticised nights,
when you sleep with a smile connected,
fluorescent, legs tingling;
evolution exclaims yes.
The boys say you are no more for it
than rusty small change, or the lint in their pockets.