She always knew exactly what to say. There was a perfect turn of phrase flowing from her red lips in the fraction of a second where it belonged. It was as if her words and the moment fused together, creating something glorious that never existed before but felt perfect.

My friends always loved her "because she was so young." Her toes were always a seductive shade of crimson and her hair fell in waves across her face like a chocolate fountain. Her set of skills included: poetry, painting, sewing, baking, and interesting, eloquent conversation.

She was my mother.

When I turned 11, she used her red lips to seduce another man that wasn't my father, or even my step-father.

When I turned 13, she used her swaying words to spread lies that caught me and burned me to ashes. I had to go away.

When I turned 16, she used her youth to convince yet another man, a boy, really, to share her bed. Like a siren, she brought him in with promises of rapture, only to beat him to death against her stone cold nature.

She still knows how to turn a phrase, I'm sure. I wouldn't know, because I cannot hear her anymore. I may have been birthed out of a microcosm with perfection on the outside and putrid, rotten secrets on the inside, but it no longer defines me. I am immune to the illusion.

I fell for a boy

with a hummingbird heart

and hands the same size as mine

I fell for a boy

anxious with prescriptions

meant to focus his brain

with shifty eyes and skin on fire

I fell for a boy

who made me realize

my whole life I've been flightless

who showed me my wings

even though he knew

they'd take me away from him

I'm in love with a boy

with a steady chest

whose hands are still my size

I'm in love with a boy

free from the drugs that lit the flames

with a steady gaze and softened face

I'm in love with a boy

allowing me to fly away

because he knows I feel his pain

but I just can't stay here in this place