She was elegant and graceful.
Light as a feather
drifting upon an empty winters day.
Baby spiders crawled up her arms
she squashed them to crusty blood
upon her featherlight biceps.

They told her once that she was
the ugly duckling to the flawless
reflection of white.
How can all colors compare to the
purest?

She had long grey feathers.
They protruded from her back.
White never goes grey.

To the youthful feathers
on each unhappy bird.

Wrapped in memories
A christmas gift with a bow on top
A surprise left at the doorstep
to dance fire before my eyes.

I can see the shadows
Too much color in the dark
twisting, dancing nightmares
Flashing across the white backdrop
For tomorrow is so clear
Yet today is hidden
And when I look around
I see only the blur
of dancers.

The intricate swirls
collecting into
the elegant character
of love.  
However,
to step back and view
each individual tendril,
is it love I see
or lust?
What is building this
firework of magnificence?  
The powers of passion,
or the powers of trust?  
The layering of the two
create the wedding cake of tranquility.

The literal mask
I put on every morning.
Smothered with powder
Then smoothed down by cream
A smack of red
right dab in the center
the illusion of ***
in the curve of the lips.
A doll with a face mad of wax
the white plastic covering
that makes up the mask.

Her face is wrapped in snakes
Her skin shingles of mud
and when the rooster crows
she comes to save her blood.
The loss of childlike purity
it was never hers to lose.
Chained to the bed
wishing to be dead
but the man must always choose.

Boys at school, they’ll laugh when they read this.
The regular blond hair
the regular blue eyes.
Average Southern Belle
aren’t you?

They’re men, aren’t they? And if they aren’t yet
well they’re well on there way.
They hunt and fish and urinate in
the bushes. What do women do?
They put on pretty pink blush
and paint they’re little lime nails
and brush they’re golden light hair.

They’ll make suffragette speeches
And watch Breaking Bad
and have so much passion in
their hearts it spills out onto
their swelling round worlds.

They’ll listen and take pity
and see every side to be seen
and write novels daily
and look at the world through
the clearest blue eyes.

The lulling twang in the voice
and the piercing sight of sea blue.
Quite the intelligent girl,
aren’t you?
Boys at school, they’ll laugh when they read this.
But it’s true.