daily behind my teeth, down in my throat, pumping my blood I feel the beauty getting too big for my shattered ribs, they can't explode, not again. when I lay on the grass I feel all my years of sunshine but I haven't seen grass for so long. it's march now. ten days till I'm the turning point of lovable, then I start getting less so. I try to carve my eyes to see the hope that you seem to always find, maybe that's a skill that your mother taught you from her belly. I'd pay for lessons if it meant that I'd feel less pressure to be mature, just another sound that means tethered. I want to be seven. easy fast love that doesn't hurt anything, and being able to grow wings when I want them, fly as high as I dare to without any help. but backwards doesn't work, not in this life. blinded by should haves, I cannot see what I am made of. I might be sticky and sweet like a honeycomb. cursive writing, all loops and giggles and kisses. I could be the bite of a cat that you thought loved you, or the smell of paint that just climbs up into your nose and stays there. I could be the grass or the warmth waiting there but I just need to find it again in order to become what I was when I was a mind too young to understand why I had fingers and toes. I just knew that I could wiggle them and touch my papa's beard all I wanted without reason and he'd love me all the more.