i can taste claustrophobia
and it tastes like vanilla ice cream

white is not a color
but rather the lack there of

that is who i am
i am - everything but

the only temple i pray to
burns every summer

and my father made me into a snowflake
cold and melting

my mouth tastes like mothballs
a few times a day

maybe it means i'm dying
turning into an attic from the inside

i'm reminded
every time i say my name

i'm the illusion of a crayon box