dedicated to this week

trigger warning: mentions of death

sea salt fields take me in

olive oil blooms at my feet;

in a golden rush i sometimes forget what it means

to be young and free.

a girl my age died this week-

she tried escaping what we all lived to be.

i didn’t know her,

but i knew her meaning.

i never spoke to her,

but i miss her being here.

the mortar and pestle grind my teeth

the sun on my back makes my mother tense;

i wanted to feel the wind on my face

she’ll never understand my summer tan, my lack of sense.

i put the food in my mouth

do as i’m told

because i made it,

grasp at the smoke before my eyes

miss out on words

because i ate them.