As I walked back toward my seventeen fresh epiphanies of guilt and heartache, muttering demands to my ears.
"I must not run from the mirror resting on the wall in front of me."
My reflection is horror. The skin beneath my eyes screams. Lacking as the widow's orphans, desperate as the whore who works in the same clothes and lives by the catch that is one past twenty-one.
Lacking as your future will be.
Embark, speak, hear me, oh great being! of the ocean, of all the skies.
Within the depths of your uncertainty, draped over your heart with snowflakes.
New shapes, weird texture, oh! such design. unplanned symmetry.
My casket-colored heart waits in line. My little girl eyes swim into the Atlantic of your wool shaped sleeves, moving cautiously toward those bones that display your cheeks just right.