seventeen.

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i.

you told me i had oak lungs; prove it. make my chest heave and shudder like i've swallowed three hurricanes, i want to cough up the splinters of somebody else, somebody i only remember being.
give me something to love in all these swan eyes and bird bones and missing patches of hair and skin. give me something to love in all these things that are wrong with me.

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ii.

let me be the night; i want to hang the stars off unsuspecting planets, tackle constellations with the leftover rope. i want to decide whether the moon is worth it or not, whether any of this is worth it.
i'll leave the sky a depressed blue, steal the stars for myself, hide from the constellations, envy the moon's beauty. paint myself in self-centered points of light; my freckles will look ugly in comparison.
kiss the stars on my arms, darling.
tell me if they taste like frothy drinks with pretty names or like all those gritty stories that never end well. tell me if they taste like you and me.

.

iii.

meet my eyes like you're meeting a stranger and hold your tongue like you're holding on for life; fall in love like you forgot your parachute and scream like the canyons are going deaf, like you're going deaf, like the whole world is going deaf because you deserve to be the last thing it ever hears. because you deserve to be the last thing i'll ever hear.

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