fears of youth

with greased eyelids

purple and limp;

the skin of my

lips tugged and thin;

veins like worms

trapped beneath wax.

this is what will be.

beneath this bosom
pulled taught by

nylon flesh, there

will still be my heart;

a deep burgundy

vessel of existence

patrolling each breath

like my faithful

watchdog.

the inner tongue of

structure erupts

onto the surface,

gasping like a

forgotten newborn.

soles are bricks,

hair is wool,

this is the moss

on the stone statue:

who

would

love

moss