We learn to pretend
so that the cracks in our hearts
aren’t sad— but vintage.

She dreams in
wild green vines
that coddle and comfort
until they choke.
Her beautiful intent
grows so wickedly and ends
brown, withered, and withdrawn—
rotted roots that no longer
hold promise.
Not even a silent one
for the sun that once
kept her alive.

When she was much younger,
they all used to stroke her long, dark hair
and bathe her in compliments.
“Oh this one—she’s so smart, so wise, so clever.”
Syllable by syllable, the words soaked into her skin.
Perfumed in praise, she grew up believing it all—
that she was a step ahead of the rest.
Whatever picture everyone else saw,
she saw the bigger one.
And the girl did.
She worked the biggest knots with well-oiled fingers
and always knew better before better got the best of her.
She learned everything she needed to know
from all of the books she read and collected.

But every Little Red Riding Hood comes across her own Big Bad Wolf.
Hers with a smile so much more cunning than any storyteller could do justice.
He’d stroke her long, dark hair and bathe her in compliments too,
“Oh this one—she’s so soft, so kind, so comforting.”
Wise Little Red followed him everywhere,
down dark and twisted paths with crooked trees,
other snarling beasts and poisonous flora that tingled her nose
and filled her lungs and clouded her judgment.
She didn’t even think to mark her trail
so that she could find her way home when she’d need to.
And when the wolf turned, like all of the stories told her he would,
When he barred his teeth, growling at her like a threatening stranger—
she knew he had decided that she was no longer a friend.
She had gotten too close to him and too far from home.

As she struggled to find her way back,
Little Red realized that her books were good for nothing.
The only things worth learning
are on those dark, twisted paths… lined with dangers,
with nothing but her own nose to follow.
And she laughed alone, knowing that her kept wits
would be the only thing to keep the wolves at bay.

Not my policy
to consider saving those
who stand on my cape.

Today I learned that
red lipstick makes me a fox.
Foxier, that is.

Stores, they sell ripped jeans—
profiting off of damage
just like us poets.

I wonder if he knows his words saved my life.
He sees things the way I see things—
it’s the kind of music the deaf can hear.
Salvation in words, an alter for art,
sound soul reinforcements for those of us
who almost couldn’t dig our nails in
deep enough to hang on.
Almost.

Thank you for having the courage
to write it all down
to say it all out loud
for allowing me
to relate.

You see, I, too, am still learning to love
the parts of me
that no one claps for.