Peter, Bjorn and lost

Crush
one, two, breath.

I look to you for supposed inspiration.

Instead, I hug my ovaries,
and pray for children, nothing like you.
Or us,
or them,
or anyone that has the capability for making me
feel terrible.

I know I shouldn’t be thinking of the

“young folks”

But it’s hard!
As I feel my hormones casting a mold over me,
and reality so happily,
willing
to set Kiwi
in a clay form
of vengeful hate.

That is why I tell the Mothership “STOP!”
I am far to battered and bitter a woman,
to be ready to grow a new life force.

Eww.
No more talk of new,
must reconnect with the old,
and then maybe, once forgiven,
will I let the new me
commiserate with the old me.

Until then,
I sleep lonely,
kissing stars and wishing I were homely.