She Draws In Pen

I was talking to the verb but adjective got in the way. The funny thing is that they don't even go together. She said winter hasn't even begun and already we're looking forward to the end of it. The snow isn't pretty once you're older. And the cold it hangs on a little bit longer than is fair.

I grabbed another bee knowing it was the wrong thing to do. But every night that mirror in my head gets clearer. And the last thing I want is to see what it's saying. We can't all be Churchill's, but we can be as stubborn. Twist those hooks and wait for a fish dumb enough.

I'm that dumb.

When it's dark and the water is bored with me and think about being caught. Suffocating in the wrong world and waking up in some alien's stomach.

Every lie is fireworks. There's nothing wrong with the truth except that it's boring. Every lie is a stopwatch. My life running against it. There's nothing wrong with the truth except that it's too slow to keep up.

I could dress them in their party favors. Paper hats and frilly noisemakers. I can put the cake right under their faces. But the knives to cut it belong to them.

I tell the lie to be quiet. Someone might still hear.

She used to draw in pencil, but the ink no longer scares her.

Skin like litmus paper deciding if we're real.

She doesn't draw at all anymore. Because there's no one to color it in.