quiet riots

i.

i crave permanence.

i've been aching for ink on my skin,
a promise of time and things to come,
so that i can say
i'm here, i exist, i am a constant
instead of fading in and out of focus.

ii.

i crave permanence.

i've been straining for consistency,
but falling into old melancholies,
thrums of insufficiency and fear-
fear that you'll tire of me.

because my insecurities will quickly turn
from endearing quirks to crippling flaws
and my childish, clumsy hands will lose their
youthful, giggly charm.

iii.

it's the eighteen year of war, and this raucous mind does not tire
instead, my soul does, and it's all i have left.