Pastry

 

I grow a plant

grow a backbone

spend my days

making sugar

out of sour cone

 

collecting pills of the love

failing me like an organ

forget you in peace

you’d never let me

say, I’m dramatic

making a scene

 

seen, gone

another missed train

wrong station

in a straight line down

I fall behind

I know the road

 

candles lit

alarms going off

now you will talk

say, you are not ready

can never make me happy

 

no tragedy

numbing silence

only memory

left of me

like an old magnet

on your fridge

 

misty eyes

blurry

say, I am too sensitive

say, I’m made of pastry

too sweet to stay

too soft to leave