a rare death.
a year and a half old child
smothering in the wallpaper
burning in the bright lights
wise to the curve of her frame
and another's.

a year and a half old teenager
smoking disobedience in cold bedrooms
aching fists with hearts beating in them
bloodied kneecaps
and discarded underthings.

a year and a half old adult
thighs that bled
welcoming her into womanhood
ringed fingers leading her through the commonplace gates
yanking her by her wrists forward.

a rare death.
a child,
a teenager,
an adult,
a starcrossed lover
cursed with the blood of mother
losing memories like they are guitar picks
or socks
or cherished toys.
losing them because they are important
or needed
or wanted
losing them because growing up is a loss
losing them because loss means you're no longer a loser...

losing them because the memory is too dear to hold onto.

a rare death
of a very commonplace life
guided through a very commonplace gate
by a very commonplace boy
who bestowed upon her
graciously
her un-
virginity.