Pinocchio

The trees begin to whisper,

Just as I begin to listen,

Or was that the other way around?

My thoughts wither like decay,

Just as seasons begin to pile like laundry in a place I no longer call home.

I shuffle through the playlists in my memories,

Only to remind myself of who I was.

But am I getting ahead of myself,

Or behind?

Nostalgia tugging at my heart strings,

I become a marionette,

Struggling to keep my breath,

As my feet fumble to catch the rhythm.

“Circus act arrives!

Will she put on a good show?”

The headlines read,

Paper paper!

Fresh off the presses,

Get ‘em while they’re still hot!

As I clamber beneath the glitz and the glamor,

My head fills with smoke.

That’s when I realize I can touch the ceiling with my toes.

And put my nose anywhere it wants to go,

But the real question is,

Will I ever be a real girl?