appendages.

My feet are not ready for summer.
My hands are not ready for anything.
I stuff them in my pockets.
Stuff my feet in my shoes.
Stuff my heart full of acoustic melodies.
Pumped full of estrogen.
Hold my head a certain way.
Raise my cup to uncertainty.
Hide my eyes in a magazine.
Wrap myself in punch drunk dreams.
Fabric tears, rip out the seams.
Never the type to play ball with the boys.
Longed for a pony, lost in her toys.
Never made a living with lemonade stands.
Grass-stained feet, Crayola-stained hands.
Indian summer, bare hands and feet.
Kool-aid grins were saccharine sweet.

More later? Maybe?