with all the letters addressed to me
but really want my bank account,
I could build a stark white castle
with black typewriter lettering for a door.
with all the empty space for messages
in my phone, I could write a love story
or a sob story, there’s really not
a difference in them anymore.
with all the words I keep locked up
behind my tongue, I could hold
a library within my lungs, even if
my fingerprints are the only pauses in the dust.
with all the risks I didn’t take,
and all the memories I didn’t make,
with all the tears I’ve collected in my cheeks,
it all amounts to stitches.
and with those stitches,
I create a doll, with a porcelain face
and blue eyes, that doesn’t know
what to make her life into.
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