To Be A Girl Is Always To Be A Dead Girl

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And all these girls talking together. All their tiny breaths

of air, stupid eyes, fingers in wells or locked doors or little narratives

that don’t belong to them.

When was the first time you felt a hole inside? Felt

the hole widen. Felt the thick linoleum of the kitchen against your stomach.

Are you listening to everything coming out of my pretty girl mouth?

His hands were like grass. No, they were like violets.

His dead, his girl.

                                                                                          When I remembered, I saw a hallway

                                                                                          filled of it all

And then it happens again