I think holding this summer inside hasn’t done me any good
because now all I do is lust for sunshine
and hell, to me, is watching him play the cello forever,
your hand on his shoulder.
I blame you, for my being only half of that.
Come home and watch me
eat the leaves with my hands.
When you tell me you're proud, I’ll try to believe it.
I’m sorry I can’t have half more than the mind I was born with,
I’m sorry that when I shake the tree, nothing falls,
but why do you expect me to follow table manners you never taught?