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Twisted syllables gush out;

                        Informally,

   Due to bold purple chaos in the back of your brain.

Like the deserted auburn fawn,

                           You scream.

   All the things you want me to carry, you  lack yourself.

            Good enough isn’t a goal anymore –

It is merely ten letters strewn across my pale forehead.

                 A clammy palette –

                        It knocks my tears into the frayed seams of the cotton marked with a nine.

            It clings to your trembling regret.

                                    All the while you question,

            “When will I change?”