I have let my throat burn with the lethal liquid in my mom's cabinet above the stove
I have placed flowers in my hair and apologized to Mother Nature for picking her children off the ground
I have reorganized my closet countless times; by color, chronologically to when that particular piece of clothing was bought, most casual to most elegant, smallest to largest, richest to poorest
But never have I ever looked at the moon and felt sorry for him
He is so beautiful, full of love and debates
I shout at the moon and beg for a reply
But there never is one
But who am I to be in love with the moon?
Knowing that his love is for the sun
And I, just a comet passing through
YOU ARE READING
please don't tell my mom I stole her car in 2015 to drive to Chicago at 4 a.m.
Poetry"we don't read and write poetry because it's cute. we read and write poetry because we are members of the human race."
