Am I still the little girl who held your name on my tongue like poison?

And are you still the little boy who always knew what to do and when to stay? The little boy, hiding behind fences and playing in big boy clothes as much as I played in dresses?

Am I still the little girl you met under street lights, who watched you break picnic tables and walk around at night?

And are you still the little boy who held his shoulders higher than his dignity, who fought with no purpose but always for something?

Am I still the little girl who climbed over fences, who stayed out past her curfew in hopes of getting just a few kisses?

Are you still the boy who tripped me down, falling over himself as I hit the ground?

Well, I am not a little girl anymore. I have responsibilities, like glitter and homework, and I am all grown up. Sometimes I even have a job.

But sometimes I wish I was a little girl again, and sometimes I like to remember sitting on your fence, a princess on her throne, and you whisked me away with a single kiss, like a waltz after midnight has struck and the clock has gone dead.

You are not my prince anymore—you’ve found more interesting things like drugs and music, you tear down fences as fast as you burn bridges and your smile is hideous.

You’ve forgotten the sound of the waltz and the steps, and the taste of my lips.

The metal flecks scraped her throat as she attempted to inhale and exhaled what little bits of air existed in her lungs. Slashing at her esophagus, the flecks contaminated every bit of oxygen or blood that flowed into her. The bitterness of copper was novel, and salt bit at the wounds in her mouth with a sharp, clean taste. She doubled over with small hands strangling her throat, clawing at the flecks in a meager attempt to evacuate them from her lonely being. She slammed into the concrete with a red liquid pouring from her mouth, blood—and glitter.