mason jar dreams stuck inside
of broken things that you call love
we stored away our future
inside the promise of yesterday
and watched our relationship
slip through our fingers like the
sand on the beach that we dug our
fists into (I think, secretly, me and you
were pretending it was one another's flesh)
and through it all, we come home
with fake smiles and dying flowers and
the excuse of "it was the last bouquet"
hanging on our lips like severed promises
instead of admitting that the ugliest bunch
is always the cheapest (and I know that
we both knew you were lying, even though
we would never confess it) and maybe those
wilted petals were more fitting for our love
than roses because let's face it
the moment you were able to call me yours
is the second we realized our love didn't
have any of the necessary ingredients
to keep either of us
alive.

That number can burn a woman
To the ground.
It's like that child that won't stop
Screaming for her mother.
It gets louder and louder,
Screaming,
Reminding,  
Soon the woman can't look herself in
The mirror.
Because she'll see it in her face,
It'll yell in her ear,
You're hideous!
When she walks down the streets,
183 will wrap it's hands around her
Legs and shake violently,
So her body looks like a walking
Earthquake.
It'll puff out her stomach and arms,
She'll have to cover up
In big shirts and jackets.
It'll draw little lines
All over her,
Until she resembles a road map.
183 is an evil number,
It takes away her self esteem,
Breaks her love for herself
And locks away
Her reflection.