My style changes from hippie to punk.
My eyes pierce and set men on fire.
Champagne bottles line my walls.
The shelf in my closet is too tall to reach.
behind hair and bangs
There are smells that remind me of him.
There are streets I no longer walk down.
There are trees that aren't trees and water flowing lies.
He teases me still.
Sometimes it isn't my best but it's good enough.
Sometimes I fudge it.
Sometimes assumptions are correct.
Sometimes I just don't give a fuck.
I've never seen the world in black and white.
I've seen burnt edges and torn hearts.
I've seen shadowed eyes and caged opinions.
I like being high.
I like armrests, windows, tray tables
and little bottles of drinks.
Sometimes I don't like where I'm going.
Sometimes the ride’s too bumpy.
Sometimes I'm lost.
I've never like potted plants
no hope of travel
I adore fields of wild flowers, poppies, sunflowers
I remember cornfields that I sang to
and crabs in the kitchen.
I remember muddy feet and wild cats as pets.
I'm not fond of looking back
of peyote in blenders
of black out lovers
of hair ties on trains.
My background is covered in twigs with no leaves.
My style goes from slut to mother.
My eyes twinkle and set men at ease.
Pictures line my walls.
There are no selves in the closet.
on the couch.
I don't remember lovers names or how to count.
I see through sated eyes.
I cook rice and beans on my stove.
I light candles for my friends.
My high comes from a bottle shared by two
from rocking chairs on the deck
from bubbles in the jacuzzi
from walks through the forest
from baking in the sun.