kiss me with mango sherbet in your mouth and sticky orange tinted lips these car tires are growing old but I am young with three dimples on my face callouses on my fingertips of my left hand stop with the 'you're scared' in which century does refusal amount to fear liberation by the pen drawings on my hand consumes me individuality is not dead I am here with fiery intent occasionally lost in a girly figure with a small waist and awkward ankles don't dance alone dance a soliloquy like the bruise on my neck