The turnstile has already spun

Lighting on the water

is where i'm headed this summer

i'd love the storm to whisk me away

and invite me to where i can finally dance without lessons 

without point toes breaking my steps

I used to spend all day watching the waves

and casting wishes 

i couldn't face the truth or the glistening mirror on the wall

salt flying through my hair- which i cut too short

i lived through my poetry

and that is a sad way to live in paradise

suddenly, even under the sun, someones hands were at my throat

and i struggled to breathe and choked on the air of my regret

and some girls bones broke under the pressure of endless running

boat rides and highways away couldn't save me 

the turnstile had already spun

I was too far inside my head to live

-could still barely breathe

and i spent that gorgeous summer

dead, and ugly in a gorgeous body

caught in the net of trying to fit into perfect skin

my saving grace was my eyes finally being forced open

past all the thrashing underneath my skin- there i was 

standing and seeing

nothing was gold, but nothing was gray

and although i felt warm again- i had made everything cold

how did i survive the constant loss 

i don´t know

the funeral just ended

and now the walk in the garden can start again

because

the turnstile has already spun