the year of deflated lungs and vases full of withered flowers

the year god turned into a complex, liked coming down more than going to church

the year my body turned into a black market; makeup remover stung more than purple skin

the year I layed in the snow until my body was just as numb as my soul

the year I built my home out of straw and my heart of cement

The year I sang to the trees because I liked to listen to them breathe

The year I realized my body fit into the reflection for a reason and no person is comfortable unless you paint them yourself.