junes.

the screaming heart torture-love/obsession
of firsts
raw and alive and too young to be taken seriously
love is purest when you're less pure than a child
but the world hasn't blurried you yet
i wish
i could have given you
the butterflied self-concious shyness
but i am now far too old.

i envy my sister
and her blushes over finger brushes
and how one word makes her spin
and feel
beautiful

i miss feeling beautiful

i miss the shivering praise of previously hidden skin
and june wind
and cats pouncing sheets, distracting the
loneliness i felt at all times
that you never once knew.

16, and to think i was so rude a roman
to try and knock caesar
from the throne he'd won on beginner's luck

i've never been marc antony; i was born to kneel.

and i kneel now, to the past
in reverance of it's glossy pain
and write more softly in the comfort
of having something more concrete to
believe in
than the ghost of a muse

but still, how the poetic chaos held me.