pretty girl with pretty flowers,
do not be afraid to trace the soft curves of your body
with your round, round eyes.
your monsters hide not there—
your guardian angels do.

when your night feels longer than the day,
breathe the smidgen of youth you have left in you
into the birds swimming fluidly with the stars—
their wings swiftly cutting smooth ripples into the sky,
disturbing the grumbling twilight.
you could be one of them,
able to go nowhere and everywhere.
like air.

don’t you want to go home?


sad girl with sad flowers,
keep your leaves tucked inside your old books,
in lacy sleeves, your peeling boots—
hope He finds them all there.

sing sweetly of the poets of all ages—siken, plath, wilde, whitman—
shamelessly climb inside His chest,
gently rip His ribs apart,
the you that's serenading, softly seducing Him
with songs unsung and dreams undreamt.

let your baby blue skirt ride up,
drip, drip, drip,
let His calloused fingers brush your thighs made of syrupy milk,
as you smile, and smile, and smile.


fiery girl with stormy flowers,
the best things in life cannot be confined to a physical shape, cannot be
seen, or touched, or heard, or said—
yet in your eyes set heavy by damp eyelashes,
there is the primal, unconfined, raw thirst,
desperately hoping and searching.

is it a lost love? an unfounded love?
what is it that you are looking for?

march on the dunes of sand
but don't look at the stars;
walk through the endless land
but never count the hours;

do not shout at the wind:
when you are slashed and shoved,
remember that you have sinned
and do not deserve to be loved;

do not go with a friend
because your pride demands it;
let solitude be your end
as you make your lonely transit;

through the blazing day,
through the chilling night,
follow the invisible way
under the invisible light;

your eyes will fade grey,
your legs will grow weak,
but you shall not stray
and you shall not speak;

and when you find yourself
right where you were before,
just sigh and pat yourself
and go on marching once more...