It's a thin, fragile book
you would keep in a desk
the cover is elegant
and the pages, a mess
In black and red ink
stories scribbled and scrawled
and the ones that burn most
are the ones most recalled
Not a scratch on its surface
no smudges or stains
but the paper still aches
a hunger in its veins
This book is a map
and if you look closely
it resembles a heart
so worn, almost ghostly.
So if I am to lose you
let me lose quickly
don't erase it too slow
when I've loved you so dearly.
I will not shave my legs
not because I am against it
but because being myself feels like my own act
of rebellion
I will not quiet down
let the world hear my pride and excitement
but I will not shout
When you get an eyelash in your eye
a wish will fall in with it
each one holds memories
stained with the makeup of your life
if the memory is tainted
with trauma, fear, or pain
The Glass Statue Girl
looks at the world with eyes of shards
moves through life like a river
her figure sluicing across paths of people
who see a clear accessory
The Glass Statue Girl
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