Maiden and Queen
Spring and Death
The duality of a girl
Who is forced to be more
And confined to be less
O Persephone
Goddess divine
Lover and avatar of little girls
Who must hide their ****** hands
Under petal pink skirts

It is easy to see your story as a tragedy
Poor lost blossom
Forced to suffer underground
Delicate petals
Wilting under a heavy Hand
It is hard to remember
That some flowers
Bloom best in the Dark

Give me pain and do me *****
I want to die before I'm thirty
I like it rough, don't pull your punches
I look my best when I've been gutted
Drown me in the river I made crying
I want to look pretty while I'm dying

Blood pools at your feet, it is yours
And you feel nothing
Watching as it swirls down the drain
This is who you are
You are a victim
You take hits
You bleed dry

Blood pools at your feet, it isn't yours
And you are screaming
Sobbing as you scrub it off
This is not you
You are not a fighter (but you fought)
You do not hit back (but your knuckles are bruised)
You do not heal (but scabs are forming)

Maybe the reason stars are disappearing from the sky
Is because we pluck them one by one, like flowers
And place them in skyscrapers, celestial floral arrangements
Close enough to touch

I never think of you
No, that's not true.
I think of you all the time

When I'm listening to a song
A movie
Or a show
I wonder if you’d like it

When I’m just sitting
Sometimes, I wish
You were there with me
(So I could make you laugh)

When you don’t text for a while
I try not to worry
(it doesn’t work)
And I hope nothing is wrong.

I say I never think of you
Because there are no fantasies
Of us in a movie
As superheroes
Spies
Or rockstars

I don’t dream of what it will be like
In ten years
Fifteen
Or twenty

I am so enamored with
What we are right now
Who you are
How you’re changing

I don’t need what-ifs
Or dream worlds
When what I’m living
Is better than anything

That I could have ever
Made up
In my head

It feels
Like I am ripping out my insides
Every time we speak

And instead
Of answering
You look at them
And write notes
In a book I do not get to see

At this point
I'd take ink and paper
Over the emptiness

Little girl
Made of glass
You have grown
Far too fast
Straight plains of skin
Have become curved
Striped with unfading bruises
Harsh and purple against fish-white skin

Mature for your age
That is said kindly to you
Surprised murmurs follow
Your fathers favorite guessing game

“Whats her age?”
He asks, innocence crinkling his eyes
Guesses of sixteen and seventeen
Outnumber anything else
Thirteen, you feel proud

It’s not his fault
That you start to believe these strangers
Mature for your age
Isn’t that the same thing
As being old enough?