She'll sit a while-
pretty ringlettes disguise her painted smile
they make her 17.

The baby blues
surrounded thickly with ink
and crumbling dollar mascara
bleed saltwater tears
onto satin pink sheets.

Every turn was a chance
to go higher.

The shoulders of friends
(who forgot all her colours)
were reddened and sore from her stepping.

Took her place among the beautiful at last
but saw
each rung of her ladder destroyed by her feet
(too ugly and too undeserving).

Too high to climb down all alone
she's is perched like a dove
stiffly frozen on powerlines
cold
yet so justly preserved
(every blanched little feather
alone and intact).

05/26/2004

Author's Note: If she doesn't soon sort out her stories, who she tells them to, and who her friends are, she'll find her climb to the top will leave her quite dissatisfied.

Posted on 05/27/2004
Copyright © 2024 Trisha De Gracia