ya throw fits at the mall
speak ***** in a child's voice
i hear delicacy in your dialect
but it's optimism, imagination
on my part, trepidation and mistaken identity
tantrums later, spilled coffee
deforestation in my thought's trees
skinny love, blood in sinks
listening to that song
ya don't dig a whole lot
about him, you don't have a shovel
but you drive your
pink nails in the sheets
it's probably why i can't escape you

for le strawberry fields, my guinea piggy