I think there’s something uniquely beautiful and uniquely horrifying or horrific about being a

teenage girl

and I hate the idea that you can separate the two because the beauty comes hand-in-hand with the

whore

because it’s your first love who breaks your heart every time they circle back around

because you are an item or an object not a person

This is not true. You know this. You have read the books. You have listened to the lectures. But

you think it anyway. And you

hate the part of you that believes it. And that age old adage about spite and noses and faces rings

between your ears.

i am 

obsidian: girl 

angel’s lullaby, demon’s wit: girl

quickly fading, blazing out: girl

new-growth forest: girl

both, neither, never singular: girl

and it’s grins and giggles to hands and lips

and he is closer than ever before

and it’s fingers branding your hipbones and whispers like prayers pressed into your skin and

then,

suddenly, it is

nothing,

nothing at all

and it’s your mother who brought you into the world and you suddenly can’t bear to look at her

because her words

that used to cradle you and her hands

that used to swaddle you in blankets soft as dove feathers and warm as her own breast

now grate against your skin and chafe and

scratch and

peel and

bleed and

your skin is what you’re desired for but you cannot bear to be in it

and all of it is terrible and all of it is breathtaking and all of it is beautiful

and it holds you cradled nested nourished shielded trapped

it holds you like a mother or a lover

though i must confess i wouldn’t know the latter outside the shadows spun in daydreams

and it hurts

and you will never get it back

and you aren’t sure you want to

and you aren’t sure you want to leave it behind.