Nov 17, 2009 23:54
At 5-years-old she was a brand new pair of Easter shoes.
Pride and shine, ignorant
of her template body. He
knew all too well what she would become, knew
of bud before bloom, preferred
her that way.
She did not know how to grow thorns, so she
grew a forest for hiding,
dark, deep, littered with swamp and stink
and creatures you wouldn’t believe:
a dog made entirely of teeth, sparkling K-9s for
paws, ears, claws,
a bird with scales, a sharp pointed beak for ripping bone, meat,
ants as big as your foot with a taste for precious--
enough of them to cause a plague,
And a little girl with her face and his fingers
that won’t stop touching herself.
poetry,
30/30 november