By: Arden Pryor

like the exuberance of bangs cut too short and stacks of bracelets that never match. 
gold is for the good days only. 
most days are silver. they are plentiful and lacking variation. 
endless hours and constantly runny eyes. 
sitting on the cracked leather seats in the parking lot. 

i dabble in brief obsessions. 
studious and fragile. 
pink streaks and 11 lines. 
or is it city lights and locks on chains?
tied backs and tins of glitter. 
lemon juice stinging your tongue. 

nights were so long, pouring over hundreds of pages. 
the wish to bury myself in the words, and let the ink seep into my brain. 
i remember the beginning. 
so young and so good, 
it started off sweet, innocent really,
which i quite like. 
i find myself comfortably retreating. 
how to know if a mind is still messy?
or if there is dust on all the files?

differences have arisen. 
brown eyes turned blue, 
and blue hair turned brown. 
stashed cans are long forgotten, 
bleach abandoned. 

the sundays of my life, 
puffed rice and a burning throat. 
juice was always too sweet.
and now i sit, 
on the top, never under. 
scissors in hand. 
watching the pictures flutter towards the ground. 
with fluff in my stomach, and pounding in my brain. 
some things never change.