17

the girl eats her sadness and it makes roots and suddenly she is a sadgarden, draped in weeds like costume jewelry. she'll start on the moon next, the sweet velvet of flowers, her own thighs and fingers. leave bruises the color of wine stains. the girl feels very near woman but never in the mornings, never under the sun in her socks and bed hair. in the shower, hips that can't be rid of, dimples, nipples pink and attentive. this calls for more soap. in public, her big eyes, her nervous mouth. the men do stare. imagine unwrapping her flesh. your thumb in her windpipe. imagine the wound i don't show you, don't dress, won't look at. so i ate my sadness. so i'm a sadgarden. so it's not as pretty as this poem. the girl and her stupid poems, her stupid mouth, her hunger- the thing that eats the hunger, the thing that eats everything. the thing that crawls inside my mouth when i speak.