I wasn't a girl until you made me one
a small goddess in the Ruth's Chris
you pulled me out of the porsche
a gentleman always opens the door
for a princess like you honey.
Seventh grade rolled around
I learned to cut my steak slowly and check
your ambien bottles without dirtying
my pretty little hands.
You hammer fist the table, I smile
biting my cerise lip till it bled,
spending all the leftover sunlight
hiding from the hunter prosecco
made you into.
And that time we were in Rome
dancing underneath the moonlight
your hands in mine felt so safe
and real. I made myself
burn that into my memory
trying to become familiar again
on the plane ride home;
in tenth grade I didn't flinch
when you hugged me
even though I could trace like braille
the spot you struck me that summer.
I love you. Are we okay now?
YOU ARE READING
an ode to the moon and her galaxies - a poetry collection
Poetrypoetry anthology in which a girl reaches to retrieve her relationship with her father, pass over a family member's suicide, and loves a boy.
