Sometimes her skeleton doesn’t sit right
Before the sunrise and since midnight
The room filled with haze, her chest is too tight
And with every yawn, eyes open in spite

I’ll take this panic attack
And drive her car right off the road
Off the bridge, that sinking feeling
About to sleep and not explode

I do wish we hadn't met actually
I don't want to ache like this
Because of you I know things can be different,
And it's me who sits around complacent
You made my mind feel young again
And I had the audacity to wish

I dreamt of airplanes, and long drives through the states,
Coffee dates in the morning, every night staying up to game.

I pictured a wedding! One where I say I do.
That would have never happened if I never came across you.
I'm dissecting my feelings, which isn't unusual to do, but I'm doing it from your perspective, and you'll never know so *******.

If I never knew you I could have just stayed on my path, not wondered what different, gentler things could be like,
Because I'm not destined for that.

If I only said "Hi" and went on my way, not giggling at your texts each and every day,
Would I be arguing with myself unjustifying reasons not to stay?

Balconies are begrudging bearers of idyllic sunsets
Should they rest as nothing more they wanted

Would you sit there and wilt into the sullen, saddened laughter
Of another lonesome worrier wondering through their mind

Forgotten are the passer-byers in the wake of changing times
I've forgotten not the cool chirping air deafening my sense

No more are for the cradle's tulle warping around me
With gentle precision hanging amid a hammocked cornucopia

Graceful shining shifts from sudden places
High and crowded seen by eyes hidden in laces

When it comes to the world,
I'm a preterm baby—
I know nothing
of tales, adventures,
treachery, or wisdom.

I watch
with hooded, glazed eyes
that only understand
fragments—
splinters
of ideas.

So when I got a glimpse,
it wasn’t something
a cradle-bound soul
could ever decipher.

It's the justification of just—
It’s never just a papercut.
And it wouldn’t be.
It’s never I’m fine.
And it wouldn’t be.

My baby self
is allowed to throw a fit.
I think
every other version
should too.

But I’m only a preterm.
What do I know?

shall i scream,
or sing a low hum?
read Poe -
or write a poem?  
the clock ticks away -
my fingers go numb;
my eyes wide open;
my voice -

so dumb.