I promised a seven year old girl
that
sixteen years would never happen
“don’t be afraid of driving, it will never happen”
in her rancor,
she pissed off a ten
year old girl’s
silhouette –
it was a hollow
young thing
but
outlined in
potential
the young early version
stepped into her
vacancy,
thickening
throughout
the
void
angry
silhouette,
she ripened
in body,
in vocabulary,
in age.
Sweet,
sultry,
sinister,
sixteen,
finding small doors
leading to
thinned
ice,
crystal air
loaded,
ready to explode.
She picks at
glass plank
floors, pulling
strips
of her new tool.
That young one
so afraid,
timid,
playing hide-and-seek
with her
developing
womanhood!
Enough!
She clutches
on to
her
shard sticks,
carving away
at her pumpkin
arms,
her pumpkin legs,
digging her out…
that little
phobic brat,
quivering around
her
prime
poisoned internals.
I made a promise
to the little
one,
sixteen would never come,
now here she is;
butchering
my promise
and
my child.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 