it was just peeking through

the lines of the shade

and painting that sepia tone

to our floor

that portrait framed, i had one choice

whose consequences were not my own.

i own them though

and keep them in my breast pocket

it's crowded there

everything that's spilled over

can't seem to find a better place

and i am left

a child.

Looking at dandelions

like they were roses

and hating that they sprout in my chest.

pock marked like cheeks

with memories

blotches of red rise

and soften, where i never could.