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i. i was (un)lucky enough to be born when the blind man across the street finally sighed his last dandelion away.  he was (un)kind enough to lend my newborn sockets a pair of blanketed eyes that knew more than my mind ever could.
i had to promise that i'd give them to another once i'm through, and i've been so scared to let them see the light that i taped my eyelids closed.  i think i'll keep them that way; why should i have to see when i can know?

ii. we're falling through space, and our printless fingertips are too chapped to grab the stars.

iii. i used to live in an haunted house.  i can tell by the way the curtains are so thin they let the light in, and it rests upon certain places like it's telling me to look harder.  i can tell by the way someone painted the walls with pictures of sleepy afternoons, a handful of moments they needed to believe was real.  
maybe i should stop splashing my demons wherever they'll fit.

iv. we should stop singing and start tying knots in bluebird skies.

v. i'm not what i promised myself i'd stay forever.  instead i'm made of yarn and baby teeth, and if you peel my eyelids back you'll see i've gone cross-eyed from trying to see inside my brain.
i'm not what i thought i would be, but it's better than what i knew i'd never be.


we are better than the toy boats that bind us to the sea.