This sort of truth is never always certain

Future sparks our stomachs

You rumble, heat builds panic

My butterflies flitter chaotic peace, breathless

You hate me, don't know me

Glances trail off my feet like toilet paper

nobody has the heart to say it

Reflected in your tears I form:

Not a purple haired, loud spoken, ring-nosed

punk, not a pill-chomping addict with man-

made freckles — Quiet Christian girl,

what could be worse: tight shape I form

tucking their sheets under the frame

I will guide them through your sleepless nights

I, the girl that will ruin your grandchildren.