At fourteen, I was a shining star
I was someone new and improved and raw
A master of eloquent machinations and
Visceral realness. I was a femme de renaissance.
At fourteen, da Vinci would be jealous of me.
I swirl lies on my tongue like potions.
Not a substance my wit can’t breach.
They say that all geniuses are little crazy.
In a perfect world, I would have stayed whole.
Disintegration doesn’t look so pretty on me.
All my thoughts get caught in nets and I’m not sure
If I will ever find who I once was again.
At twenty-two, I am a long way from home.