When I was nine
I read a book
titled Twilight
like that perfect moment
between night and day
and I thought
it was so pretty
until I found out
it didn't mean anything.
And when I was nine,
I needed words
like I needed water,
each one like
another desperate gulp
of the vital nectar
which kept me alive.
I needed them
to make me whole,
to make me human.
So when I read Twilight,
it meant more to me
than any bible could
because the words
were the most
wonderful
thing I had ever tasted.
But I didn't realize that
the holy water
had been poisoned.
And I didn't realize
that it was her words,
the glorious language
of Stephenie Meyer,
which I drowned in
like the Styx River,
telling me that:
no man will ever love me
while I look like this,
and how will I ever
be worth anything
if I am not loved?
Because women
are boring
and useless
and can only be made into
something beautiful
if a man loves them.
Because a women
wrote down her dreams
which shaped my nightmares.
And it was within
Edward's life span
that I learned
that maybe what was ugly
was telling little girls
what their futures would hold;
that the only man worth loving
should be so white
he glimmers;
that said man,
the one you should love
for an eternity,
should look young
because old people.
