My nail polish is chipping, and
I wonder if the walls of my
insides are the same color
of sea green
because I feel a little sick,
because I feel the paint peeling,
piece by piece,
my false peace in pieces.

I should've painted my insides
a different shade of green,
green like
the trees outside my window, and
the trees that cover mountainsides,
green like the floor
of my favorite lake.

If my insides were that color,
I wouldn't be afraid to
escape there.

There, where there are birdsongs,
whistling leaves,
the space between mountains
humming, hummmmmmming with a life
I can feel warm against my throat,
like the fire that will warm my skin
after I've waded into the lake
in nothing
but my bra and panties,
singing loudly because
no one's there to hear me.

If my insides were that color,
I wouldn't be afraid to
fall asleep there.

There, where the grass is softest,
(you wouldn't believe me)
and best of all,
green.