Why You Tried to Drown
Little soul, pulled down like a drum. Hook-line. Sinker. You swore there was gold at the bottom of the lake, that the lake wanted you to wear its mossy skirt. Yes, you looked gorgeous in firefly hues, the moths pitched white as barrettes in your hair. Little air, little sediment-coated tongue. Holy Nothing is a trickster: oh to be young, yes young, and lopsided in faith.