Chewing on the cursed, 

bubblegum sky sprawled out 

above me

I asked, is god a girl? 

and is the sky a piece of gum 

stretched around her finger

from her mouth? 

I was a very slimy failure 

of a thing, 

a putty thing some 

bad-off 

kids made for cheap 

out of expired glue.

And I asked god, or the sky, 

or the sky gods if they could 

stretch me too,  an overbearing,

shocking spearmint into some 

un-resemblance of tangy-sweet,

successful sunset.

Of course I wished 

to be more brilliant than I was,

more orange, less yellow— 

I was already too red, 

a flaming rage.

And when I said I wanted to die, 

I meant I wanted to crawl 

back into the womb 

of the crimson sky.

I meant I wanted to be a cloud 

again, fluffy outcast from heaven,

heights

reaching new weightlessly,

unperturbed; moving slow, 

slower 

above the tiffs 

of our tiny minds.