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Look at all of the girls I was. Stumble
stumped, pinafored, picking up the wrong

dinner fork. And now that we're older I can't
tell her what she shouldn't hope for, can't tell

her time tastes as flat as the cigarette she took
from Ben's mouth to smoke because she wanted

to feel what wanting felt like. Poor child.
Look at all the loves she lost while looking

for a love that would hurt in a way she could
translate into forever. Look at all that love,

the well of sad songs we ginned into. How
do I tell her to believe in sadness as the most

achievable kind of beauty, in the sadness inside
of the beauty she thinks she should want to achieve?

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Copyright © 2020 Emma Bolden All rights reserved
from River Styx
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission