Body and flesh with the age of seventeen,
without being loud or angry.
Never been,
the warm yellow light.

Spiraling out of control.
Calmness collapses.
Burning a hole,
in what is assumed to be poured.

Deep pigment,
showering over loved once.  
Yet no commitment.
Daffodils growing in the garden.

Dripping from the ankle,
deep red,
ropes to get strangled.
Melting and mixing orange.

They may not know how i’m feeling,
but if they stop reality,
they see me hanging from the sealing.
“How young was she?”