you wanted slurpies like sunsets not like rain forests but I wouldn’t swallow orange oceans for you just to fall over on burning planets that you set on dire because you didn’t have in your palms what you wanted for your fingertips dipped in silver from caressing stiff breaks/what are you stopping this time but your ability to drive mountains by just giving someone a hand/don’t talk about ink when you’re only full of petals that you can't cut up into feathers unless the crates in your lungs can spew enough light to teach you to respect your voice and leave the postcards made of palm trees and snowy mountains where your eyes first caught on them/don’t snag your shirt on rough edges that pull you away from walking into fixing things and the next time you cut your tongue on pineapples remember that you can still bleed because of the things you love.