the SIXTH of MARCH, TWO THOUSAND and TWENTY ONE.

adulthood approaches; i'm still stuck in my head. childhood narcissism never wore out,
a precious infant begs no longer for milk, but for power and blood and euphoria.
i grasp on to what little youth i had, i cling to it. i mourn the loss of my appeal,
my gradually fading teenage desirability. selfish selfish selfish; existentialism swallows me whole.
it smells of acid, of chlorine and ammonia. eating away at my skin, it licks at the supple softness.
i count the days on my bitten fingers, three.. two.. one... eighteen. am i supposed to bloom?
to the contrary, i feel my petals wilting. chemical burns, murky and seeping. unhealing, permanent.
i fear the further away i get, the phantom hands that hold my head up will slip. my neck snaps.

take me back!