Ode to soul,
as naive and silent,
still and slow,
as the golden hour left quiet.
A bright fluorescent mixed with discovery
clean as despair
from what the ground has done to me.

The color of adolescence unhinged by the earth—
simply sit and pull me from the dirt.
My existence would leave,
a slumber I live;
every little bit of me bleeds to be heard.

I wanted to be painted by the color of adolescence,
but I think more that I wanted to be seen
to prove that i too, was here—
that I did not go quietly.
that I spilled through wandering hues,
ash and fumes,
though I was the golden hour,
smudged in a flicker, wild and wanting
Still, I spill—
tongue my own name, let it be hunger,
let it bite back.
To be called by something other than quiet.