Wicked smiles and painted faces,

Uncomfortable places,

Summers,

Long and languid,

Tell me,

Is this what we’re made of?

Hearts of ash,

Burned by desire,

Bones rusted by time,

Flesh to be shaped by hands,

Long since corrupted by the flames of the heart

Hearts like fruits,

New and untouched,

Soft,

Unknowing,

Carefree and sweet,

Yet time sets in,

Rot and decay eat away,

And it waivers,

Hesitant,

Hiding hurt behind delicate felt,

And falling,

Bruising against the ground,

Mush,

Now unwanted,

It tastes good no longer.

She looks at me, and I know. 

With her cracked hands and crumbling smile, I know what she has lost for me, what she had given up. She speaks to me with softened words and whispering encouragements, edging me on towards success. Her heart has given into the loss of hope for herself, for childish dreams and high school longings. In the shape of triangle sandwiches and towering birthday cakes, she lets me onto her greatest weakness: me. 

She looks at me, and I know that her grit was lost within the storms of my childhood.