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what happens to you when its a full moon

cupid must be smoking on the job again window browsing, lung killing, app scrolling he can never keep up with my self love he lets me fall to waste bones to dust, lungs i can't trust i mean, man. he's a man, i guess he's fine to leave me reaching out and ruining my nails leaving my dirty fingerprints on the white picket fence

Whenever I next see My seven year old self face-to-face How am I supposed to say, "I spent the rest of my life wishing I was you". My safe space behemoth, playing out in the cul-de-sac under balmy sunsets, hot pavements, carless streets. Kicking a football up and down, riding a bike badly, drawing doodles in chalk, imagination imagination. What can I be when I grow up? The glorification, the mortification, the mummification of adults who worked hard. Put food on the table, wash the dishes, clean linens that can always be cleaner, iron the uniforms on Sunday. Whenever I next see My seven year old self face-to-face How am I supposed to say, "You spend the rest of your life dreaming of you". "You meet your love young, you study well, you party a little too hard at times, but somehow you do it. You end up in a tech company and you're happy, but the world has failed you, and you never truly get over all this shit". Deep breaths. Five times. Odd numbers are more attractive. "None of those dreams come true, but, little egg, you won't tear yourself open looking for who you could be".