Lily Juliette
(What makes you ache
and what makes you crawl
Tell me your secrets,
since you don't seem to tell anyone anything at all.)
You are girl perfume in vintage bottles,
victorian dresses heavy and velvet,
hidden rivers by ice and pine.
You sketch french gardens
and couture wedding gowns
but you don't see what's around you -
the girls with their anorexia,
(ribcages like the painted fairies on your walls)
the hearts that dot their i's
and boyfriends in distant universities.
This is your temple:
the dusty library coughing up books
with fragile sepia tone pages
like an old lady with smoke in her lungs.
You sit at the magohany table in the back
reading to yourself quietly
like you are reciting the rosary,
like those old fairy tales are your
gold and crimson prayers.
Later in the afternnoon
you stand alone, like always,
by the brick wall with ivy
all twisted and shades of varying green
climbing steadily over the years.
There are a ton of your wine-colored lipstick stained cigarette butts
lying lifelessly amongst dirty leaves on cold pavement.
This is your overlapping branches and leaves hideaway.
You are sad castles,
satin shoes and sweet wine under a brilliant moon,
you are butterflies and lovers in the rain.
(What makes you ache
and what makes you crawl
Tell me your secrets,
since you don't seem to tell anyone anything at all.)