To be seven years old and unafraid

I was crying to stop it all.

The sensation

The falling

The cold, round, blue-black space 

And the turning world. 

I was born to eat flowers

I said to myself,

Some flowers bloom and die in your mouth.

I did not like it

I don't want to talk

To become a bad thing

A paroxysm of rage

Murder wet against my lips.