divine philosophers/poets say that i am made up of forests and meadows. that i am constructed up of roses and willow trees, light rain and autumn leaves. with the slightest touch i will collapse into waterfalls, slipping past mossy rocks and broken branches.
and also i am fragile— so don't touch me, because i'll fade like the seasons. wilt away in worn down boots. scuffed and scraped and beginning to tire of color; (i think my shoes once were red).
they've stripped me away of graphite skin and volcano ash teeth. i'll hold you in my arms, make you bleed from coarse crumbs and then i will take your cherry colored tongue in mine and scorch the tip of it at 104°, (by the way, that's a fever).
and even then, i'm not that either. i can't be a god or a lightning storm; im not clay anymore— im not even fucking dust.
i am human, and unfortunately: i am lipids and nitrogen and protein and carbon and on and on and on.
i'm a goddamn puzzle stitched together from one hundred different, unfinished puzzle pieces.
who gives you the right to strip me away of all i am, and who i will be? make me seem like some romantic, milk-boned pécheur.
and, i swear to god, if i hear one more story about girls too easily broken by boys with paper hands, i'll take their clear diamond teeth and slice my metal lungs with them. (i won't be able to breathe, but it's a hell of a lot nicer than being cut continuously by his hands).
