when i was young i tried to capture the words of the wind in empty jam jars,

breathing in what i could beneath the secrecy of my bedsheets.

it was back when my writing wasn't complete garbage,

when the boy with the camera didn't live so far away.

i could sing a song about that boy, i would say,

and the birds would fly back in the midst of winter to listen.

everyone would listen, and smiles would encompass their faces,

kind of like when the new flower i've grown to care for

made me believe i was divine.

turns out he had played this game a time before,

and i am just as ordinary.

i write this to the suffocated maidens, whose corsets are far too snug:

fill your teacups with rum then shatter them, and i promise you shall find the light.

the same light i found

back when my writing wasn't complete garbage.

but it really was, wasn't it?