Lord help me
I’m changing too fast
And I can’t keep up with my cells
Soon I’ll turn to sand, and I won’t know what to make of myself anymore.
Is there a way I can stay this ripe? Like a fruit that never dries.
Can you turn me into a painting?
Or like the hieroglyphic arts in Egyptian tombs;
to be imprinted for centuries to come,
alongside carvings of painted eyes full of desire
and lips that hold centuries old secret
yet never old