There used to be a child
Who braided flower crowns out of weeds
And skipped on chalk hopscotch
Who danced in the rain and sang about wanting to be in love someday
Then that child woke up
They are twelve years old with the body of sixteen.
Called mature for their age
Splashed cold paint on a blank canvas and called it art, fueled by a burning desire to create in their ribs
They are sixteen and look twenty one
The fire in their chest has burned down by white powder on their nose and vodka on their tongue
Their friends are merely aliens, strangers they used to know
Where did that child go?
Where are the flower crowns?
Where is the rain?
Where is the love they so badly wanted to experience and why did that get confused for rape?
Why did they wake up with dirt in their blood and screams in their thighs?
The fire is struck again, but it is not creativity or innocence that fuels it.
It is revenge.
