The folds of my life are being torn from my clutched hands and run down my arms as I try to hold back the dam with my bruised fingers; and this is just another narrative because little girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice and babies don’t come from the cabbage patch. Dark Godiva chocolates and Cyreno can’t fix my hell of a life run amuck as little girls are dreaming; it’s a dream/only a dream and I’m nothing but a plaything on the yellow brick road to insanity lined with daylilies that leads to a large wooden door painted moss green. But Bic pens pin little boys to walls and she has become Bay View and euphoria never was as euphoric as euphoria could be, I am just a pawn in a game I am too young to understand, and Fairy Tales don’t come a dime a dozen. Time does not limit what I can deeply feel — neat calling cards in a stack only make me remember your face in Kodak color but I left footprints for you to follow! Then why are there shades of gray, that hold my newborn spirit in their power and why do I have to take the road of my own when what you preached never existed — another fabrication from the person who said that survivors are few and believers are crazy? And I have only just begun to understand that it’s not safe to travel roads of wonder late at night but time is fleeting and my minutes are ticking away Tick Tock Tick, Tick Tock, Tock Tick — but you can’t rape the willing……

❤ I’m going to miss Zoe seniors!!!!! All my love


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