She didn't like to talk about it.
She was a wild lullaby, stifling
screams into her feathered pillows.
At 13, she wasn't a dreamer.
She cast glares at her peers,
wandering the halls digging
her long tiger-nails into her palms.
At 14, she wasn't a dizzy-romance
she hid herself in naked boys' chests
and let them swallow her sighs.
She wrote them hate letters after they came
At 15, she wasn't a zombie
but she wasn't quite alive either.
She drew patterns in her limbs with
scissors, and waved away her parents concern.
Her best friend was a star in a film
made in 1969.
At 16, she was a pile of bones,
she took her last breath on a saturday
& she never closed her eyes.