In the aftermath of the tippled boxes
come undone;
ribbons untied, and words scraped
from corners of a pale skinned mind, unrefined;
do I say I am sorry?
When I was just a girl, in dresses printed in sunshine
and sewn together with trust,
I learned that words mean very little.
Unless,
they cause an unraveling.
Hope is easy. It’s a cliche gimmick token
curio offered with a pat on the shoulder
and a nod of the head. A smile.
While all the while,
I cant quite decide, which box to put it in.
You are too soft child. That is why you get so hurt.
You love too hard girl, that is why
you fall.
You hate yourself too much, woman-
maybe you should stop trying so hard.
You shouldn’t be so kind.
You shouldn’t speak your mind so much.
He will love me if I just bend.
They…
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Beasts of Articulation 