i grew up in a field of daffodils, just beyond complete oblivion, where everything was beautiful and carmels turned to crystals, before i blew them all away. now im sitting in an orchard of headstones, underneath chaos, insisting that im not going to get out of this grave alive. but im sinking my nails into the blackest earth and instead of drawing clumps of mud and dirt im only pulling out the insides of my future hope and their intestines are building up around my feet. withdrawing my fists i start to shout hoping that they havent all forgotten about me the girl who disappeared in irony beneath the biggest sky where buildings build a cage and few are strong enough to survive and most just succeed in digging themselves a place to die in anonymity. so i wonder where my wildflowers are now because i only feel the chill of cement closing in over my head.