I’ve been to the same camping site multiple times.

In a year

I want to go back

to where the sky is a blinding blue,

and it smells fresh

as if it had just rained.

I don't want to go anymore

Because I’m the stain on the shirt.

And social status still exists

Like putting the queen card on your head.

The food is great

But the people make it bitter

It gives me a familiar taste of 

When I bite into an apple

And spit out the sourness

The taste stays in my mouth

If I ever go back

I’ll be a different person

And I’ll have a queen card on my head

So no one will look at me from above a tall cliff

That I’m just latching onto