Maybe you were right when you said, “We don’t even have to try, sister.”

They don’t even know what’s there, sister, they just want to get inside. Like it’s a fuckin amusement park ride.

Hold on, we should give ‘em blindfolds, because the illusion you safeguard allows you to hold

them in your cupped hands until they fold-and give you the gold at the end of the rainbow.

They’re yours to mold, sister.

Like the God-damned Plato we had when we were little, arguing over who would sit in the middle, and who would go first, and who was prettier.

Now it’s a matter of who’s been treated shittier, and who cares less about the quarter-life mess we seem to think we’re in, And, those wanna-be riders we left back in line, second guessing ourselves and our own skin.

I’m making sure all the pieces properly fit in. I’m measuring the growth marks on the old closet wall

Against our undocumented sins, sister.