Della

I like to sit alone 
On the crackling leather bench underneath 
The raindrops running down broken glass

Mud painted walls lean on cedar poles
And yard-sale teacups 
Hold dried flowers on a shelf 

i like to write stories
about the girl i might have been
if i'd stopped watching my step
i was too afraid to fall
never looked up
never saw the sky

i never breathed enough
to fill my lungs with air