They call me a good girl
and so, I’ve always tried
but somehow, I can’t seem to find
the shining white pearl inside
and so, I always try
to find the good in others around
and hope that in some way, somehow,
it rights all my wrongs.
They call me a good girl —
I think I’m too good even for that.
They’ve walked over me,
stepped on my feet,
crushed down my throat,
trampled across my chest,
pinned my hands and legs,
clipped my very wings,
and for it all, they simply say
that I am a good girl.
I wonder if I’d still be good
if I shake my mane and roar
and thunder claps at my voice
and the earth trembles below
as I trade my wings for talons
and claw my way out
and soar a thousand feet high
and take back what’s rightfully mine.
But what does it matter?
They may call me names,
but I know mine:
I’m a good girl.

Stretched wide across mountains and valleys,
clusters of hills and springs of rivers,
a soft brown veil dusted with gold.
Take a long nail, pry it aside,
come, see what’s within for a modest fine.
My flesh, a soft pink for a childhood much missed,
my blood, a loud red for all the shocks I’m full of,
my bone, I’m not too sure for none have travelled far
but if you pressed me hard enough, you’d feel it -
scrolls of poems written and yet to be,
my tongue a ribbon binding them all,
my teeth an ivory chest to contain them,
and sweet lips carefully locking them for now.
A treasure trove awaits those
of my blood and water,
presented on a silver platter under
a soft brown veil dusted with gold
stretched wide across mountains and valleys,
clusters of hills and springs of rivers.