The eight year old in me

 
The eight year old in me 

Wants you to know

It's not fair that the hickey on my chest is fading slower 

Than our relationship.

Did I say I wanted to be cracked open again? 

Did I say I wanted to feed you the marrow in my ribs? 

Did I say I wanted to show you the menagerie of butterflies in my chest?

I am dizzy with this spin cycle of loving and losing. 

How it goes from comic to tragic in a single turn. 

I am selfish with desires: 

I want my pink house made of love. 

I want to sleep beside another person every night. 

I want to stop bleeding from the marrow now.