self portrait: nonconformity and a wreath of wallflowers in the hair
i am concerned. you are full of delicate pith. or is it pulp? you were not made for this world. when you hold a crying child you wake up in tears. you feel hollow, blighted. what do you weigh, what do you weigh? in the garden rainbows fly out of your solar plexus. you ask me if i love you unconditionally and i hesitate. i love you on the days that you sustain yourself on bittersweet coffee and smoke. cat hair covers all your clothes. we shift. i know you’ll only agree to be mine for twentynine more minutes. you are a flock of birds soaring and dispersing from the trees. i can hear your heart beating through your shoulder. you wring it out over the fields, soak the dust with tearfilled sangria. you can't look the sky in the face. would you have believed the world was flat? these days life feels like a game of the floor is made of lava. it's not a game.