one day you'll fly a little too close to the sun
and you'll remember the boy who told you
gas station trinkets were worth more than
the heart you wore on your sleeve.
disillusionment will take you home, and
it will not leave your bed in the morning.
(you will remember he called you loose, too.)
you are the one who believes in smoke
smiles and candid cadavers. no ones'
nose grows, so everyone must be
undeniably true (except
you lie to yourself, too)
a few lifetimes ago you fell in love
with your own reflection, but as you
stripped away layers of common mis-
conceptions, you realized you are not
virtuous and radiant and hung out
only to shine, your paleness is
not purity- only blanched bones.
gravity never liked you and
the secrets you tucked away
beneath your sternum, you're
you are a moth flitting selfishly,
you only wear your tattered wings.