i should've been
many more things to you
when i sold my secrets;
at the least, a flurry of fingers
and wild hair waiting
for the next
blend this world into circles, into pastel notes:
this is what you would have me believe,
with what makes sense
grace, and how to destroy this with foolish patience.
honesty: how to grind this with mortar and pestle.
the scent of green, and why i always end up with purple.
a violin, when all i wanted was a flute.
speak plainly, for i only know of riddles.
dissect and learn, yet bury the answers