Can I please look like you when I grow up?
Absolutely. Eat root vegetables plucked from dense dirt and marked by peachwood and iron. Always sip your moonshine from an empty tin soup can while listening to the static storm on the radio. Make sure your thighs thicken with muscles which swell and wrap your bones from carrying broken-hearted bar buddies who buy one too many. Wear teeth marks like jewelry given with both love and hate. Only lie to the police. All of your clothes should be missing a few buttons from fingers that couldn’t wait. Get a full two hours of sleep and dream only of the ocean and the curve of her neck. Only buy things with wheels or wings. Let your failures sink behind your eyes like a silver dollar in a bucket of street tar. And, most importantly, fall apart every time you look up because the particles that pile into your shape will one day spread and pass the farthest star.