505

Jaded, weary of pyrite glimmers and faded glory, cracked lips zip sealed from the disapproving glue of days past, words said internalize and dance around my head like a broken metronome, a magical place where everyone's a winner, refuse to eat dinner every passing maypole. I stare at the floor, wail because I’m still five. I want to go home, crybaby sucks her thumb.. kicks mounds while tears flow like a babbling creek, I’m still a sinner behind doe eyes and limp hair, I'll do whatever he wants to say it bluntly. You take the wheel, clockwise, view the endless droning of small talk and cheek hollows. Wallow, pout, scream, shout I’m five and fifty, seen everything but innocent. A beautiful contradiction between apple juice and bountiful friction.