knocking on hell's gate—
heaven isn't open on sundays

in 7th grade it was red, bood red, wine red. short and choppy and red, i hated myself. i cried until it grew, thinking my problems rooted in what was left of my hair. i lied that year, red lips spewing black oil, sticky and hard to wash out. in 8th grade, the summer i was a fairy, it was raven black, green under the redwood sun, too thick bangs covering my greek caterpillar eyebrows. a boy had a crush on me and girls carved words into their ankles, i didnt understand. i dont think they understod either. in 9th grade my hair was long, overgrown, knotted. stained colors i no longer could recognize, hugging my neck and back and shoulders when you ****** me over, i buzzed it off in the end.

my hair is laced with flowers and my mind has gone. i've spent so much time trying to turn pollen into pixie dust, and one day, as i was singing nursery rhymes, i swear the butterflies led me somewhere like my home.

my heart is heavy enough to restrict me from flying.
bathtub full of flowers, mind filled with honey, honey, honey.

peter pan will grow up to be an old man working a desk job, and hamlet ends up in a place between the depths of heaven and hell. even god doesn't know what to do with them anymore.  he's got no clue for me either for my mind has gone.

white gown and angelic smile, i'll sing to you until you remember.
forever means nothing if you just age until you're a particle of dust.

i have remembrances of you, remnants of you. they're tattooed to my prefrontal cortex, and they cloud my judgement. my mind has gone. love isn't real, but i see signs anywhere i look, and they're singing nursery rhymes.

my fingers start to prune, and i duck my head under the water.
it's only for a while, now. father i won't be long.