I hate this stupid place
With all its gasses
And those happy faces surrounding me

And I hate everything
That I'm not
And everything I planned on being

But maybe I'm too young
To write about growing old

His love was a sort of
branch of the heart,
forever reaching,
with rough bark that
chafed the skin
and precious, sticky sap that
ran beneath the buds.
When it stormed,
its petals plastered the ground,
a dewy, soggy mess,
and prettied up the mud.
Until winter, and the weight of snow, when
it cracked, tore, broke
and fell without a sound.