the truth: a fragment

what i fear most is the day when i wake up
and the forsythia are only yellow
and the magnolias are only pink
and my blood is only red–
when i am only able to tell the truth,
but the worthless truth,
about the world.


another failure: a fragment

feels like another failure–

a boy who is unable to love runs his fingers through a girl’s hair–
it feels forced and they both know it, the touch that is a little too
deliberate, a little too rushed–bodies that should be opened up like
gifts are instead shook until what’s inside breaks. but he is already
broken. and she is too tired to explain. they lie like empty wrappers
on the floor, already passed over for newer, shinier objects.