I just found a poem that might as well have been written by someone else. I only know I wrote it because it’s in a book my daddy gave me – and my handwriting.

I’m guessing it’s from my Lana phase last summer but really I have no idea.


Fragile in pink satin.

It’s frayed at the hem

and she picks at it,

nails bitten.


The city is so hot.

Open or shut, the insect-slapped window gives no relief.

She lays a cool crystal on her forehead.

Rose quartz against sweat.


Oh, the long days.


She could leave but the crowds frighten her.

She pushes the quartz into her flesh, liking the pressure.

Feeling real.

Am I right? Tell me!

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