i've got seven types of suspicion
theories the world doesn't want me
i'm sitting softly in the black
the lily white crane swoops down and
presses a red square of pure luck
under my tongue
is this year my year
or will it fall short
i don't feel like the chasm is closing
the november sun cries in southern drawl
and the eclipse says
i'm on my way, sorry
i get dressed and curl my hair
i bathe in lipgloss and hope i look
the way i envision myself
or maybe it's just
too heavy an anvil to lift
high expectations but i've got vertigo
sometimes it's ripping the bandaid
and sometimes it's just watching it bleed
