You're born with wet paper for a voice.
It drips whenever you open your mouth,
makes a puddle on the floor wherever you go.
When they pull your wisdom teeth out,
your gums bleed toner,
and red lipstick shades
always turn copper.
You leave your first kiss' mouth's
black,
and you talk,
try to tell him sorry,
it'll go away,
I'll wipe it off,
but the words cry ink,
and you get harder and harder to read
until you're just one blob of color,
and all you do is stain.
You sit under the sun,
stick out your tongue,
and dry yourself out.
Wordless, but you're
lipstick red
and inkless blood
and a blank page for a voice.