Two-hundred and Seven: Twinkle, Little

Even the skinny moon mocks me.
My smile wanes and waxes, taxing
me in ways I cannot afford; smiles
are expensive. Soon someone else
will have to pay for every curve.

It’s a shame  to swerve round
every corner, determined to hit
anything that comes your way.
I swear like a motherfucker.
A trucker stuck in a pixie’s body.

A lot of the time I starve just
to charm myself. It’s selfish
to miss your youth but my
mouth is too naive. Too old
to pout in a grown-up way.

I miss the purity of my bones,
the way they flowed like a clear day.

Fragility is a cage I want to be
trapped in. One day I might snap
and join the stars I wish upon
every night.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

4 thoughts on “Two-hundred and Seven: Twinkle, Little”

  1. “A trucker stuck in a pixie’s body.”

    I totally and utterly feel you. Though, I would say nymph’s body for me.

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