the world will always spin, she hopes
and the moon won't rise at seven but nine
and summer will last forever
so she can stay where she belongs
curled up small in her bed at noon
eyes locked, door closed
the world will always spin, she thinks
just like the moon will always rise
at seven or nine or eight-thirty
and summer will slip into fall
taking her and you and everyone with it
and it will never stop
never stop twisting,
turning like a broken record
she's motion-sick because of you
staying still in a mad hope
that you won't look into her eyes
see her spinning, complex,
traumatized world
and know that you've won
that the score is settled
and the war is over
YOU ARE READING
Clean: An Anthology
Poetry{#73 in Poetry- May 17, 2016} A series of poems and essays about the things I wish I could say out loud. @soundthealarm made the gorgeous cover.
