Reid@YWP

When my hair begins to grey, I will rejoice.

My crow’s feet will race farther than my aging joints could ever take me.

They will run down my cheek and jaw to meet my laugh lines, 

I will kneel on broken glass as 

my blood stains the pearly sheen so that 

you will see I've resorted to my last option: begging 

before you (as a woman should be) to rip 

Democracy is fragile as a house of cards with many, many layers

Many, many pieces

Many, many things that could go wrong

The slightest breath, enough to bring the whole thing crumbling