my childhood was removed from me inside of a blue mustang and what remained after that I tried to barter off the highest bidder but I grew, not up, but forward further away slowly releasing hands of defiance fists chock full of hopeless words like anger, the flavor that aches the bone, the cold kind, more barren than the green of Christmas lights glimmering off the icy veneer of a white picket fence overeager, in the apathy of theatrics, to strip off the remainder because the empty feeling that followed might one day make a decent poem