Writing

For the first twelve years of my life,
There was no direct purpose in existing.
But then—
on the night of my thirteenth,
butterfly wings sprouted
from my back.

I got my own garden to tend.

We tried and though we could have done more,

We did enough to be us and create the good--and the flaws-- in those who still walk forward.

Why does your torch burn? 

The young girl asks, 

Pouting her lower lip in confusion. 

It is fire, 

The lady gently responds, 

I want to cross the street and have cars catapult around me

Mass destruction like wouldn't you know it

I want my steps to echo the pavement

And for the world to swerve around me

But I walk and nothing happens

(ywp is like the sunrise)

washed in watercolor above the sleeping world

enchantingly illuminatory

& strawberry melting into orange creamsicle. if you pay

close attention, it never really ends

I hold onto anything that leaves a mark.

rings that coat my fingers in green

doodles in blue ink on my arm

I hope for my injuries to form scars

just to prove their existence.

scratching bug bites until they scab