At age 16, freedom tasted like a vanilla ice cream cone— hand-scooped fluff, as white as lilies in a crisp waffle chalice, served right to my window in a freshly asphalted parking lot. Skin fresh like porcelain, eyes as deep as the pacific rim, breath smelled like freshly cut raspberries dipped in mayo and we agreed not to get married until, we're twenty-five. Please stop I can’t handle thinking about the future again, not today. Dear world, please stop caring. please. save yourselves, for I can’t stand to be the girl who waltzed in with the wind and crawled out with your heart. I'm now a cocktail of fire and gun powder, all ready to explode. My hair covered in caffeine mist of the heavy monsoon air and my hands all rugged with the load of your murderous melodies. Backbone erect like a newly designed light house, happy eyes turned smokey beneath all that make up, the lips that told stories chapped under the weight of words, glass slippers turned into pretty little stilettos, covering stretches of dirt below my feet. And if you’re in love, then you are 'the lucky', cause most of us are bitter over someone. Rainbows aside, my need has not diminished, but anything I say, you won't understand, so what is the point of writing?