"Future"
The word alone is dangerous
So full of blown-out-candles,
Long-drowned purse-change,
And hundreds of thousands of shooting stars gone still.

I have so many hopes pricking into my skin
that I start to think I'm stitched of impossibilities

As if my soul was drenched in daydreams.

I laugh at the paradox that is "Future":
Today is yesterday's tomorrow,
And this poem, the past.

Every time you ask me who I want to be
In ten-times-three-six-five I sink
Deeper in my body
My skin tinged blue
Dye creeping from my chest to my toes
Dye for blood, blue for heartbeats.

Pardon me, Future? Who am I?
No answer.
Sorry, this poem is too
DIFFICULT
too STRENUOUS
to think about right now.

I know what's next: tergiversation.
Ask me who I was before

My poetry will be a compendium of a girl
I never knew.