haphazard

Upon your words of interest, do you ever switch your veins?

Does the cycle rise and fade and release its tides against the mountains in their most primal of times? Still, though they may, I doubt they see the impact of the havoc they make.

Because there’s a price that comes with hues that mix and dissolve a certain way. There’s a lack of consistency there that is craved, sought, and fed upon by wildflowers with thorns and love songs with fangs.

Then there’s that resentment that is pitied and regretted as well, particularly by your father whom you love so but can’t bring yourself to heal. But you’re clawing at every wall until your nail beds are bare, and you think it may be effective. You think you’re almost there.

So you’re torn between territories and miles begin to wear like stretch marks and cellulite on your shell.

But they tell you it’s beautiful; the violet lightning that charts your thighs like a storm’s atlas is a gift and not a mishap. And now you’re petrified because you fear that the colors have come back.

What is it; who shall I blame, for the lottery of capricious hell for which they entered my name?

- M. Rose