M. Hank

Once, there was a little girl.

She was around 7 years old at the time,

and lived with her mother and father

in a little red house, in a little green forest.

They made chicken soup on their little stove 

when were you going to tell me

that we were never really friends?

and instead you pretended you liked me

so you could laugh at my tear-stricken face.

all those nights I opened up like you cared

Dear, that fifteen minutes, a week

less than.

all it took for you to worm your way in. 

A day. A moment. A lifetime crammed between seconds.

a bond that is a force to be reckoned with.

I saw a photo of myself from freshman year

I didn’t love how I looked, cringed at it—a knee-jerk reaction to my ugly, green shoelaces—but not necessarily just because of my physical appearance

When you are old

Your skin will become like paper,

And your bones will be like the wooden ribs

Of a lantern

So that the world will see the light in your chest.

But I don't need to wait

I hung in the sky, frowning down at the city below me 

Scowling because Peter Pan went away. 

I had stretched, and my body had run away 

In the years since then.