Pictures of buckets, the lackluster girl, is full of snap buttons, and laces with pearl.
Her mind resting easy in lines wrapped striped green.
A whisper of July that sticks to her seam.
A coin dropped in Amber, a kiss coated ripe; that's nothing to something, which never felt right.
How can we all love her? She asks out of spite.
Why can't we just be her? She asks with her thigh.
The doctors go home when their rounds rounded out, but nurses stay on, and they wish through the night.
Her heart is a baby, that waxes and wanes.
She won't be your lady, if you don't like to strain.