Désenchanté

I’m gazing outside stained glass windows and thinking of 

colorful light, my year of dreaming

and how in it, I have actually achieved very few dreams. 

I’m an incessant lip biter with the scars to prove it, 

and three crooked holes in my nose, which are

unintentionally, unluckily, uneven. 

Unluckily, the peaches on the table perfuming the kitchen

have decided not to     ripen. 

The insides are solid and the outsides molding, 

meaning my consistent summer dream has

prematurely come to an end. 

I tried strawberries for a few weeks. 

Perfection is known for its affinity 

towards strawberries, which go ripe and 

don’t continue to do so once they’re picked. 

It was only a few     weeks.