When I
                          was younger
I swear my
                          head was full of
bees,
                          and they would
fill the empty
                          spaces between
my ears and my
                          language.

When I
                          was younger
I had a smile
                          that was beautiful and
terrible
                          and much
too loud.
                          How annoying.

When I
                          was younger
I painted my
                          nails with
tar—coated them
                          in innocence
and then let them
                          chip.

When I
                          was younger
I played cymbals
                          behind my
temples
                          a cloying
cacophony, sweet and
                          soporific;
an incessant shouting:
                          GOOD LORD
GOOD LORD
                          GOOD—

When I
                          was younger
I pressed handprints
                          on stained
glass, milky and paper
                          thin; it was
either scientific
                          inquiry or
vanity
                          (But really, what’s the difference.)

When I
                          was younger
I could stare at
                          myself in
the mirror
                          drunk
on something like
                          satisfaction
drowning in my
                          own sick prettiness.
I cannot do that
                          anymore.

When I
                          was younger
I wore a
                          watch because I
needed reminding
                          that time was
passing but
                          now I
can never
                          forget.