jane austen lied.

children,

always seeming like at any moment they're going to trample over,

and scrap their knees.

just from play.

my knees. 

mirroring a desert sky. 

and i somehow accidentally keep picking at my scabs.

free bleeding without notice,

red rivers drawing down my white shins,

until i finally compose myself,

and feel the blood collect in my shoe.

countless trails of my foolish mistakes marked in crimson.

now, i only want to play sitting.

reserved.

no ability to fall over.

no ability to scrap my knees.

or break my bones,

break my heart.

i need to stop writing about romance.

romance is dead.

…

..

.

to me.