all the lines in my hands, they...
I trace them quite often with an empty pen.
They map out my future, my being, who I am.
Who am I? I am the tectonic plates of earthquakes,
and you, my sweet child,
are the burning magma moving me into a new puzzle.
once again she sings from the shoreline and they have the audacity to blame her inevitable change. It isn't her, it is her world.
Tip - try not to ignore little girls when they're crying in smiles