You run from your shadow
as if it's the darkest part of you.
You carry your rosary through bone yards
as if it can save you from your demons.
You tell me it isn't always about love,
that you are not tragically beautiful,
that your suffering cannot be romanticized.
The stinging does not always come from
the imprint of thick palms left behind by lost lovers.
There is not always the devilish grin under a freckled nose
or skin under cotton.
There is not always a He
and you are not a sad poem
written by a
reckless,
hopeless
girl.