I'm growing weary
of wayward glances
and haphazard fingers.
I crave hands that grip
and fold around my edges,
if only so that I can tear them away.

I'm growing weary
of false prophets and
kisses that are sweet
as wild raspberries.
Give me words that scald
and love that makes me question
everything I've ever wanted.

I'm growing old
and still feeling like a child.
Fickle and temperamental,
I brush away men like flies
to waste away in a mirage
of my own creation.