i miss the child i was at 17. 

i miss 17, i miss missing, i miss loving nothing. 

i miss wanting to feel and not being old enough to get it yet.

i miss thinking i was emotionally literate. 

im 19. 

nineteen. 

i am still a baby, a kid, a viriginal chalice not yet ready to be drunk from.

there is no slow down, you crazy child when it comes to me. 

my onlookers wince as i choo...

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she died on the bathroom floor you know. 

a cut on her ribs. 

the rib borne from man, 

killed the girl on the bathroom floor. 

no one had kindness. no one had words of condolences. 

only four pictures and a note, 

only they proved someones love for her. 

the things that made her beautiful, 

an innocence lost, 

a bleach blonde tangle, 

and a vicious lover from a doomed...

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