You're merely seventeen, you aren't in love,
you don't even know what love means-
but then...
neither do I,
and you may think I’m being ignorant
but I'm really just bitter to the taste and rough at the core.

My blood runs black, but my tears are sapphire.
My eyes are as glaring as the air in March.
Don't tell me my mind is powerless.
My soul is dense.
And though my heart is tattered and covered in scabs,
the wounds are more wise than your attempts of being an adult.

You may slush wine in a glass-
as tipsy as the seesaw on the playground from your childhood,
but you will never be able to see.

You can sing and dance that you're in love because you ****** the first girl that said she loved you,
but you shouldn't be so naive,
because it’s easier to be hurt if you are.

So you can wear your six inch heels
and prance around in your chiffon mini skirt and Chanel handbag,
but you will never be a grownup.