"eighteenth" poems
"But what if we're wrong?"
It was silent
But her thoughts echoed around in my head as we laid on top of her pickup truck
I swatted at the eighteenth mosquito chewing on my leg
I don't want this to be love
We were tangled up in the acoustic music they play on the radio on Sunday mornings
She was trying to dream up something clever to write about
And I was pretending I could learn to play guitar through osmosis,
As if blending myself in with the harmonies, finding her in every lyric, and sheer willpower would give me wings or at least magic guitar hands
She set the alarm, checked it over and over
She was not going to be late for her first day
I told her I'd be asleep when she got home, she told me she knew
I told her to wake me up
I wasn't looking for perfect
Perfect really only applies in first year physics courses
After that, we learn to fall in love with "rough around the edges" or "unique" or "unfinished"
As if their life is a puzzle that we need to complete
Just so you know, it isn't
She bought me breakfast and dropped me off
She used to tell me she loved me, but I know she didn't
She does now, so she doesn't have to say it anymore
When I said, "love," before, I didn't really mean it
Not like I mean loving the garden on the balcony of her apartment or thunderstorms in May
Even if I was a puzzle that she completed (and I'm not saying that I am), we didn't need any glue to fit perfectly
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 9:17 PM UTC
For he's a jolly good fellow,
adorned in yellow and love,
it was hard to see his face through the smoke of a three blunt rotation, but I could feel his heart beating from across the trailer.
Worn out eighties music was the unofficial theme of the night and I think we lived up to the expectations Eddie Murphy set for his.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
i bought a cactus
the summer of my
eighteenth birthday
i picked it up from
the local nursery and
cradled it all the way to
my car so that it wouldn't
fall to the concrete
i had only just met the little guy
and i didn't want to lose him the
day i finally got him
it is quite stupid to buy and
name a cactus but
i felt very attached to the small
succulent that occupied the
left corner of my bedside table
it was a cute little cactus with
orange on his top and a long
green stalk with spikes poking out
i felt pretty satisfied because
even looking at this plant
made me smile
taking care of this cactus
gave me something to do
and it kept my mind off of you
for a while
maybe i connected with this plant
maybe i felt like i was the plant
i sure do feel like the plant
trapped
growing
pokey
all adjectives aside i still
am very much addicted to
caring for my little cactus
if it lasts through the summer
then maybe
i can too
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
We were boys, once.
Our mother liked to dress us in tailored suits and leather shoes.
Every Sunday morning. Ready bright and early for mass at 11.
We'd sit in the classroom at the back of the old church hall.
After mass. After the chatter of voices hushed down to whispers; virtuous gossip.
Our teacher fed us images of hellfire and brimstone.
*** and sin.
Satan in a red cape and Halloween horns.
He didn't always look like that.
Oh, no. Mother said that he'd come out all dressed in a suit like mine.
He'd be handsome! His voice would be a choir of one billion ****** souls and once you'd hear it, you'd never want it to stop.
In my eight-year-old mind, I wondered what he did and what he felt when his own father cursed his name.
Did he stare at his dad with his thousand-eyes? Did he protest?
Did he laugh as he fell? In a cascade of feathers and blood.
Maybe he was better off without him.
He'd spend the rest of eternity trying to prove his father wrong. That he was worthy of his love:
That he would be the only son to grieve for the mistake of humanity.
The holy adversary.
The one who would shout his love for The Lord until his throat cracked dry and his chest ached. He, who could see the suffering of his father's own creations.
He, who tempted Eve and proved God wrong and we were flawed from the very beginning. Did he watch Eve eat the apple and savor every bite?
He loved his father.
Did he deserve it?
I stopped going to church on my eighteenth birthday.
What kind of parent would **** one son and praise the other?
Who would let one son be nailed to a board and the other to rot in flames?
Even as a child, I knew.
Through every slap, scold and bruise.
I would never bow.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:32 AM UTC
I feel every emotion too deeply; they're a dagger to my heart,
and I'm too sensitive - it only takes one tiny trigger for me to fall apart.
Sometimes it feels as though I'm not a real being;
convinced reality is a figment of my imagination that I'm seeing.
I started to litter my body with scars from the innocent age of ten,
I haven't stopped although I am nineteen now - things just haven't changed since then.
I made my first attempt at the tender age of just twelve years old,
and to this day another fourteen have occurred; by this inner demon I'm controlled.
A patient in a psychiatric hospital 6 days after my eighteenth birthday,
after swallowing a cocktail of pills and alcohol wanting to die away.
But...
I am someone with raw passion that flows through my veins
and my curiosity and adoration for the world around me remains.
I have mastered the art of living in the moment and doing the things that matter to me;
and I'm full of devotion and determination to be the person I'm destined to be.
I use poetry as an expression of all that I feel and I am made of linguistic creativity,
and I love deeply without reservation everything and everyone around me.
So although I may have borderline personality disorder as a part of me,
I am still a kind-hearted and passionate person who wants to be the best she can be.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 8:29 PM UTC
An elephant and a dog became pregnant at the same time. Three months down the line the dog gave birth to six puppies.
Six months later the dog was pregnant again- and nine months on the dog gave birth to another dozen puppies. The pattern continued.
On the eighteenth month the dog approached the elephant questioning- “Are you sure you’re pregnant? We became pregnant on the same date ; I have given birth three times to a dozen puppies, and they have grown to become big dogs, yet you are still pregnant. What’s going on?”
The elephant replied- “ There is something I want you to understand. What I am carrying is not a puppy, but an elephant. I only give birth to one in two years.
When my baby hits the ground- the earth feels it.
When my baby crosses the road- human beings stop and watch in admiration.
What I carry draws attention, so what I’m carrying is mighty and great!”
*Don’t lose faith when you see others receive answers to their prayers.
Don’t be envious of others testimonies.
If you haven’t received your own blessings- don’t despair.
Say to yourself, *“My time is coming, and when it hits the surface of the earth- people shall yield in admiration.”*
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 4:58 PM UTC
Heart skips
like a warped record,
trembles over scarred vinyl
until "I love you"
tastes incomplete:
(I) love you
I (love) you
I love (you).
My Swan Song mewls off key,
cascades across the
marred terrain of my soul
in a thick lacquer of tears.
Notes flatline
in unison with my
waning pulse
(waning, like the face
of the moon on the night
of my eighteenth birthday).
My breath
resigns to static,
dances in slow decrescendos--
sputters its way
towards nothingness,
slipping rapidly from
my consciousness until
I no longer hold
any recollection of the music
(or the poetry).
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 6:00 AM UTC
A cloudless night like this
Can set the spirit soaring:
After a tiring day
The clockwork spectacle is
Impressive in a slightly boring
Eighteenth-century way.
It soothed adolescence a lot
To meet so shameless a stare;
The things I did could not
Be so shocking as they said
If that would still be there
After the shocked were dead
Now, unready to die
Bur already at the stage
When one starts to resent the young,
I am glad those points in the sky
May also be counted among
The creatures of middle-age.
It's cosier thinking of night
As more an Old People's Home
Than a shed for a faultless machine,
That the red pre-Cambrian light
Is gone like Imperial Rome
Or myself at seventeen.
Yet however much we may like
The stoic manner in which
The classical authors wrote,
Only the young and rich
Have the nerve or the figure to strike
The lacrimae rerum note.
For the present stalks abroad
Like the past and its wronged again
Whimper and are ignored,
And the truth cannot be hid;
Somebody chose their pain,
What needn't have happened did.
Occurring this very night
By no established rule,
Some event may already have hurled
Its first little No at the right
Of the laws we accept to school
Our post-diluvian world:
But the stars burn on overhead,
Unconscious of final ends,
As I walk home to bed,
Asking what judgment waits
My person, all my friends,
And these United States.
3.9k
june tenth
the pale lamp in my room is flickering again,
you told me fifty three times to fix it,
i never did.
september twenty-first
every morning i drink apple juice,
you liked orange juice and always asked me to buy some,
i never did.
september twenty-fifth
wednesday: the day you were born,
once you were gone i was supposed to forget,
i never did.
october third
halloween is coming up,
you told me to dress up as captain america,
i never did.
may second
it's spring time and the flowers are hopping up from their beds, (another thing i never did)
i can't believe the world still goes on but,
i never did.
may eighteenth
i read the fifth harry potter book,
i skipped two and four; you once told me to write my own story,
i never did.
may twenty-seventh
you always laid out my meds for me on our lillypad green paper napkins,
but whenever i'd take them you'd vanish, so,
i never did.
june first
i played a mel tormé record,
you said i had a better voice than him whenever i sang along but,
i never did.
june sixth
i cried for the first time in three days,
the world felt heavier today, i tried to let it crush me but,
it never did.
june tenth
now its been,
well,
time seems a bit funny to me now a days.
but i guess its probably been two months or so,
but the calendar says four years,
but the calendar wouldn't be the first thing to lie to me in here.
but i want to let you know:
i don't have lamps now,
i only am allowed water,
they never tell me what day it is,
i haven't even seen a halloween since your absence,
the only thing close to flowers in here is the pattern on my gown,
the "library" here ***** there is a total of nine books. they are all gross romance novels,
my meds now come in a tiny paper cup four times a day,
they only play country here and thats only on music therapy days,
the world floated up
up
up
and away, i assume it took you with it,
i guess it is just and fair that this happened to me,
i mean look at all the things you asked that i did not do for you,
but i asked you one thing,
and you said you'd always be with me, but,
you never did
no one ever did
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
You are beautiful and faded
Like an old opera tune
Played upon a harpsichord;
Or like the sun-flooded silks
Of an eighteenth-century boudoir.
In your eyes
Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes,
And the perfume of your soul
Is vague and suffusing,
With the pungence of sealed spice-jars.
Your half-tones delight me,
And I grow mad with gazing
At your blent colours.
My vigour is a new-minted penny,
Which I cast at your feet.
Gather it up from the dust,
That its sparkle may amuse you.
3.3k
Love Always
the tunnel
the end of it all
bursting through like shrapnel
the city lights singing the perfect song
as the wind snaps along
Love Always
the Glory Days
and the songs that capture them
and the stages that make them
and the plays on the field
that will be played and replayed for a lifetime
Love Always
the island of misfit toys
where bubbles cause as much awe
as the eighth that inspired them
from the Big Boy to the eighteenth green
you will all make my typewriter
Love Always
the holidays
the people around the table and the t.v.
too stubborn to speak their cares
both the M * A * S * H episodes
and the long rides home
Love Always
the books
the books and the characters and the morals
and the books
and the teachers that shared them
we accept the love we think we deserve
Love Always
Charlie
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
There's that word
for girls like me:
the ones who
didn't see the point
of princesses.
The active ones who
run and jump and slide
and can't be bothered
to stand around the
playground sidelines,
whispering and trading
in spots of character assassination
or information.
"Tomboys" they call
those girls
and maybe later
"butch" or
"masculine of center."
I notice how
there's never
"feminine of center."
But really,
I've always felt impatient with that word
"Tomboys."
Why should a girl who wore
dangling earrings
but liked the things they label
"boys things"
want a word that suggests she's
something other than what she's not?
An aspirational boy?
A girl who grew up into
a closeted girl
with short hair, no make-up and a love of
jewelry.
Whose first girlfriend post-coming out,
took one look and said "But you're a femme!"
Please, please, understand.
In my heart I am a pirate king,
of the eighteenth-century variety:
big sword, big earrings, big weapons.
On the threshold of middle age,
somewhere on the spectrum of gender,
What word describes me?
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 9:00 PM UTC
It all started with mixing Tequila and Sambuca last Friday night.
Then I noticed him, busting some classic moves on the dance floor.
Soon we are dancing, grinding, kissing, laughing, dancing, kissing,
he's even drinking out of my half finished cup of water, he's smiling.
"I'm a Royal Marine, not an Army boy!" he corrects. "A Commando."
We both even have the same phone! Coincidence? I don't think so.
Beads of sweat dripping from his hair onto his flawless face and neck,
yet, he smells oh so divine, "it's Gucci Guilty Intense", he explains.
I blurt out, "Hope this won't be a waste of your time, 'cause I'm not
going to sleep with you tonight!" He says, "All right", and smiles.
Mixed signals, cold bed phobia, pure drunkenness combined,
I offer him, "It's late. You can spend the night at mine, I don't mind."
"Just Scott, you won't remember the rest, it's long and complicated",
later he adds, "Good luck trying to find me without my name!"
"I'm Twenty One." "That's so young", I exclaim and he frowns.
He's cocky yet witty, and also very pretty, so I let my dignity drown.
Taking him in my mouth until he explodes like a loaded gun,
my duty to the nation's hunkiest hero was well and truly done.
"I joined two days after my eighteenth birthday", said he with pride.
"My vacation's over. I'm leaving on Sunday to Poole". I sighed.
I spent the entire night insomniac, with my head throbbing to the beat
of his obliviously, peacefuly sleeping exhaling and inhaling speed.
Close enough to feel the heat of his body, yet a million miles away,
him dreaming and I reminiscing, both awaiting the dawn of a new day.
Skipping the "thank you", "goodbye", hug or phone number, he says,
"See you around maybe", holding a rather deceitfully seductive gaze.
"Scott, we're never going to see each other again", I answer bluntly.
Mirroring my sad smile in reply, minus the sadness, he left promptly.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 3:05 PM UTC
I was six or seven
I realized the dragonball Z comics I was drawing
needed a story line to make any **** sense
that was the first time
Then I was twelve
writing gangsta rap with my friends
a group of English farm kids
who couldn't be any whiter
That's when I realized who she was
By fourteen I was writing things which resembled stories
only not really
fifteen sixteen seventeen
they were growing stronger
February of my eighteenth year I wrote that first poem
I thought it ******
and it did
but still
people liked it
poem after story after novel attempt after poem after story after...
almost twenty years old
the words are thicker
shorter
harder
but still,
we're not there
but I can't wait until
the days of matrimony bells ringing in empty churches
the day were you give in to my
I do
We'll write our own vows
burn our sacred cows
we'll write a love story
which won't ever be forgotten
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
Long walks, long talks under the south sky, we knew it was love
December, snowflakes, cold night but you made it warm
White gown, black suits, sweet vows, but that’s not how it ends
Black lies, midnight fights, angry cries, we know it’s not love (not anymore)
This is the morning when the French man curses Paris
This is the morning when the sun loses its light
This is the morning when promises become lies
This is the morning when are love kisses the lips of goodbye
Chorus:
Because on the eighteenth, summer turns to winter
All that we have withers
Everything warm and bright fades on the arm of September
I can taste my tears, I can feel my fears
You walk away with no words of love to remember
Whiskey, dancing under the night sky, I have heard you died
November, tears fall, sorrow cripples like a thief
Ugly box, pale cheeks, another goodbye, I pray to see you breathe
Regrets, lost love, indecent goodbyes, you left me twice
This is the morning when the French man turns to dust
This is the morning when he takes his life
This is the morning when memories fake the aches
This is the morning when even fears and tears can’t bring you back
Chorus:
Because on the eighteenth, summer turns to winter
All that we have withers
Everything warm and bright fades on the arm of September
I can taste my tears, I can feel my fears
You walk away with no words of love to remember
Coda:
Your awkward smile, your deep blue eyes
Old photos will remind they’re once alive
Your broken dreams with an unfinished song
No more Tuesday nights for you to sing along
Because on the eighteenth of September there’s no morning, only mourning
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
I once read an essay that made perfect sense
It gave an alternative to cure expense
It was a proposal that was quite modest
I wish I'd have thought of it, to be honest
It was from the early eighteenth century
It would empty the full penitentiary
Babies are free until they are at least one
Then they are fat, tender, and ripe in the sun
Parents can sell them to the politicians
They will use them as part of their nutrition
It is a win for everyone, you can tell
After all, we're already going to Hell
Sell the babies for politicians to eat
Use the money for a superfluous treat
We should kindly thank Mr. Jonathan Swift
For solving all our problems with this great gift
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
He punched me last week
And told me that he was joking and that's between me and him
My friends saw and helped me break it off yesterday
Today is my eighteenth birthday
And I am nothing like my mother
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 10:54 AM UTC
Here lies my eighteenth birthday,
The days we've kissed, and said goodbye
And all the laughs and heart to hearts,
Our extinguished tears and fiery eyes,
And all our childish fantasies,
Dog breeds, houses, children's names,
And the blackened fragments of our lungs --
From which we laughed and gayly sung --
Now rest peacefully in the ashtray.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
they came
together to celebrate his life
how he made it this long,
he wondered; he saw them poking endless candles
into the white cake in front of him
behind him, his daughter
hand on his shoulder, insisting he have all ninety
instead of two fat wax digits "90" wedded,
a lone wick on top
ninety on June 6, 2016
he gave little thought to past birthdays
he forgot most, except one burned clear
in memory--his eighteenth, when
he landed on that beach
the sands and surf of his dreams for
three score and a dozen years since, eyes open,
or shut tight in deep sleep, he recalled that shore: someplace
between light and dark, between breath and air;
he saw the blood, he heard the cries,
he remembered his heart thumping
more than that he recalled jumping
over bodies on the beach, now beyond his reach
he could see only vague shapes of them--men
with whom he spent months sharing meals,
smokes and secrets
in all these long years,
he never understood why he received
not a scratch, while those only feet, even inches
from him were eviscerated
now, as ninety lightning years
flashed then flickered before him, he closed his eyes,
to ensure this waking dream was real
and those around him, singing, were not the angels
of death he eluded so long ago
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse.
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vain-glorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it
Where long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call.
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead.
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse --
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
1.8k
Maybe those afternoons,
were meant for,
that simple meeting,
amidst the quiet,
breviloquent chatter,
raw, uncompromising,
blissful uninhibited emotion.
Resounding cups,
mismatched china,
jasmine, rose, lavender tea,
celestial gardens,
plants; leaf-bearing
chinking lipped tea cups,
saucers pooling.
Immaculately intricate,
of Hadrian Denaruis silver,
an eighteenth century delight,
for ladies; un salon de thé,
sound waves wander as tea diffusers,
ritual & routine,
friendship & freedom.
© Sia Jane
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
I've been a million things in my life,
And worn a million faces like masks in an eighteenth century opera house where they tell you to scream like you mean it and whispers are never heard because the crowd is already on their feet and the roses smell too sweet.
But today I wear nothing but my ego,
My ego,
So Jungian, Freudian, the sought-after prize of a million men who won't ever compete with my constellation scars or the sharp sound of my teeth clicking together in a cruel grin.
You hate girls that strut like they're concrete because you broke them all before,
Because they're lies and false gods and you swear that youth today are all spat words and flying ***** not given.
I'm not youth today,
I'm an age-old god of war and pride and I'll cut you down like a whisper in the wind if you try my patience...
Because what is death if not being forgotten?
I'll forget you, if you try my patience.
I've forgotten a million fragile egos and I'll crumble your concrete into pixelated dust like a million tiny claps in an eighteenth century opera house that can't tell if the blood on my hands is real.
I've been a million things in my life,
But I'm finally the one that matters: unforgettable.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
The last drops have been swallowed,
And the last vestiges
Of post-wage labor
Libationary sorrow
Swagger slowly off
Into the night
Across cracked pavement
Like slugs after rain.
I pick up the chemtrail
Left by my father
And follow it to
A makeshift master suite
Wedged between a
Rundown groundskeeper
Shed and the unkempt
Wilderness beside the
Desolate bike path
In rural Seekonk.
The rest of this comatose
Town in this overdosed
Commonwealth
Are separated
By enough trees
And undergrowth
And small
Night creatures
Calling to each other
In the dark
That they can't hear
The nightly
Rattle of .38
Rounds my father
Sends flying into the trees.
The pistol was my
Grandfather's,
Brought over from France
In 1947.
My father cries
As he pulls the trigger
Over and over
Sporatically,
Like a Sung Tong,
His eyes wild,
Darting side to side
In milky blue trails
Back and forth
And up and down
Across the dark
Chasms of his
Eye sockets.
When the chambers
Of his firearm
Run dry he fills them
From the box
He took from my basement,
In his old house,
Where he stockpiled
Ammunition for
Twenty two years.
I've learned to stand east
Of my father when
I make the visits
Expected of children
When their parents
Are old and trapped
In the recesses of
Their insanity
Or nursing home
Or empty nest,
Because he always
Aims west.
I wait for tonight's
Box to be empty,
Then slowly walk
To where my father
Is huddled,
Clutching the pistol
Like a teddy bear.
He is breathing heavy,
And has **** himself.
He hears me coming,
Turns, and smiles
Upon recognition.
"I got em good mikey,
Got good, not taking
My land from ME
Mickey, never going
Blow south,
See it?"
I pull the pistol I've
Brought from my waistband,
The one my father,
Gregory Bishop,
Gave me on my
Eighteenth birthday.
The weight in my hand
Is deafening,
The illegal ivory
Is seamless
And cold against
My palm.
I raise my arm,
Aim,
And pull the trigger.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC
thoughts of us swarm my mind
like a cloud of locusts,
their strong power of flight
damaging every circuit,
all interconnected,
causing every part of my body
to slow down and reminisce of
the time we spent being
together.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
I am standing on a staircase, on the seventeenth step,
but the eighteenth onwards has no bannister,
up until now, I've had a safety net,
something to lean on when
the steps aren't lit properly.
'Now', I tell myself,
'I've seen people who have fallen
and manage to grip to the edge
and pull up...towards the next'.
'But I've seen people fall
and never get up'.
I say;
'Am I another statistic?
Am I another failure?
Am I another mangled corpse for the cleaners?
Or...
Am I going to lift my leg and take that step?
Am I to ignore the thoughts?
Am I stronger than I let myself think?'
I lift my leg.
Upwards and onwards, I guess.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 7:25 PM UTC