seven.twenty.oh-six

young girl, I remember you,
sweet pretty thing,
little in spirit and in heart.
she thought love was a happy ending,
not a reason for a difficult beginning.
christmas was delightful because of presents,
and the blameless man that was beaten bloody and died
was reduced to a golden cross hung above the fireplace.

there was his spot.

she grew,
and playground woes led her to determine that
fuck was a dirty word,
but she was oblivious of the nice thing it really alluded to.

she didn't know about tomorrow.

the days sped past,
and she prayed for the future.
girls reach the age where their bodies swell up,
and they are filled with the love of their mothers
but have no place to put it.
that which was innocent learns of that which is not,
and the world starts to turn off its axis;
muddled lies become less pink,
and laughter less hazy.

I keep you wrapped tight in my head,
sweet little thing,
like a gift you already know the contents of.
do I still have to act surprised when I open it,
or will the mother goose rhymes speak for themselves?



(for jessica)