When I find myself bored, unsatisfied,
It is consequence that
I also find myself helplessly in love.
An allusion of the fateful fall,
I idly daydream, dangerously
imagine myself in the arms
Of someone who is undeserving.
The wispy dreams are hazy at first,
The golden-touched skin
And the puckered lips
Of sophomoric ideology,
I trace the heat of his touch
All over my skin. It burns, of course
But in my disillusionment, I naively
Believe that this interaction
Is like aloe: smooth, buttery, and without falsity.
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 