Sick

the world will always spin, she hopes and the moon won't rise at seven but nine and summer will last forever so she can stay where she belongs curled up small in her bed at noon eyes locked, door closed

the world will always spin, she thinks just like the moon will always rise at seven or nine or eight-thirty and summer will slip into fall taking her and you and everyone with it and it will never stop never stop twisting, turning like a broken record

she's motion-sick because of you staying still in a mad hope that you won't look into her eyes see her spinning, complex, traumatized world and know that you've won that the score is settled and the war is over