There is a hollow ring widening inside of you. Stretches of unfathomable air. You are living in the dormant ages of a volcano. You are child to a delayed explosion. Inside your chest, you are 100 degrees. Always getting ready to explode, yet you boil quietly in solitude. To the girl born bare and broken, with moonlight eyes like they were built to overcome the night. You are the colour of a thousand sunrises.