"Tread with caution
Construction ahead"
The sign passes behind her
Lost to ecstasy and joy
She crashes through
Brush and thicket
On dream-paved paths
To where the little white cottage stands
Spit-cleaned  and rag-polished
Waiting

"Caution-sinkholes
Beware fragile earth"
She slows her pace
Bouncing slightly
Till the ground caves in
She leaps as earth sinks at her heels
Consuming her spirit
Leaving dirt on her knees
And the little white cottage stands
Cobwebbed and dust-lined
Waiting

"Beware- cliff ahead
High tide, rough waters"
She approaches warily
The dirt still caked
To the soles of her shoes
But ignores the sign
Arrives unprepared
The cliff comes as sudden as a drop
Land to air in seconds split
Frozen water breaking her fall
And the little cottage stands
Stone-cracked and rain-streaked
Waiting

"Danger- falling rocks
Avalanche prone zone"
The water drags at her fingers
As she crawls to the shore
Huddled under the cliff
Overhang so close
She can smell the mossy wear
Water-clogged she fails to hear
The rumble of stones
Till they crash to the ground
And the little cottage stands
Foggy-black and death-caked
Waiting

"Construction Site-
Building in progress"
The stones crash against her
Down to the sand
She falls to her knees
Pinned by the boulders
With the weight on her shoulders
She remembers the signs
But wishes she remembered sooner
And the water takes her
As the little black cottage stands
Time-worn and wind-torn
Waiting for the future
Never to come

I'm doubting you again
are you truly the man
I first met. or were you never
the man I thought you were
your eyes did trickery
on my heart
and I lost myself
in the folds of your hugs
maybe your smell
deceived me
with a hint of musk
to hide the blood
bleach doesn't help
stains on skin
maybe you never were real
and I'm just a fleeting
moment and thought
of lust
never love

I want to tell you I could love you.
I could make you happy.
I could make you fall apart on the
bedroom floor,
helplessly and desperately proclaiming
that our love was more
than the nights of
raised arms and oceans of threatening depths.

But fifteen is an age when all of this
is just a dream,
a cliff where the jump is even more
dangerous than everyone says it to be.
Fifteen is the age when I believe,
that my hands have grown rough enough
to take yours
and maturity and age
have always been our similarity.
But fifteen is just another name for
"You're too young."

I cannot promise you that a wedding ring
would worth more than
the freedom to love the women
of taller heights and wider hips
for their lipstick is much darker
than the lip balm I use to
smoothen the dried skin.

For I do not know what it is like
to slide the glass between my fingers
and to taste the golden bubbles
freeze my teeth.

I do not know how to light a cigarette
or how to inhale the scent and death of rebellion.
I do not know how to let the ashes fall
unto the tray without burning my skin
and dirtying my nails.

I do not know how to make you want me,
how to dress and turn my curves
into mountains you wish to explore.
I do not know how to turn my tongue
into a weapon much deadlier
than the wind.
I do not know how to make you
feel beautiful.

So with all of the worlds streets, corners and
dimly lit bars,
I am nothing but a little pigtailed girl
with a lollipop in one hand and a poorly written
love note in the other.
And there you are,
as tall and as handsome as I've always seen
you as
with no time to look down,
only straight ahead.

But I guess, thats okay.
The heels would never have fit me anyway.