,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada, Age 16
Ghost
eyes, that’s what they are; les bluets is what they were.
Big and bright, shining through her smoke rings.
But now, they match, fading with gray grace.
Begging for touch or a meaningless staring f***.
“The world ain’t got time for you,” say those who
chance a look.
The ambition of a young girl disappearing beyond its half.
She’s barely seventeen, keeping pills in hungry photograph:
It's parted lips, matted curls, purple costume tights.
Hot cheeks, borrowed stilettos, stolen baby doll tee.
Quilted purse, tattered poetry, old coffee cup.
Shabby suitcase, silver rings, brown paper puke bag.
Blue bruises, desperate giggles, pen inked fingernails.
Subway rattling, hair cuffs whisping, jean skirt raised and torn.
Rolling eyes, guessing dice; “This may be your lucky night.”
‘Cause the scratches down her back aren't from art attack.
No, she’s not your average beauty queen.
Her father doesn't speak to her. He hates her collar bones.
She’s coming soon to find him on a lonely train ride home.
The other men stare, focused like the daily news.
This isn't New York City (not even close), but recycled words are
still smudged,
back into something new.
She’s barely seventeen, poisonous, red and gunned.
Country fields of wheat deserted in the dark.
Farmers sleeping in their peace, dreaming of a cross.
Though, her father has a bonfire, the only one awake.
He sees his blue eyed girl dancing in the flames.
(Your blue eyed girl is waving, a faceless girl you know).
Pale moonlight fading through her smoke rings. Overboard she goes.
Letters in her pocket, you're the only one that knows.
God, she’s barely seventeen, the edge of reason whore.
Palms pressed against the glass, she mouths,
“Say you think I'm pretty; please say you've missed me so.”
Those men watch her practice, it's sweet the way she tries.
They pass a glance or two, humming questions left for bare.
Her freckled nose is holding pose, who’s she hurting for?
She’s barely seventeen, so what’s she crying for?
Her father says goodnight, his bed a lonely waiting.
He would rather drink ‘till dawn, plucking feathers off a peacock.
But his peacock ran away and his daughter’s not too far,
both not seen in years, dangerous to his charm.
Sleeping in dye twilight, the platform by her side;
flashing lights, neon signs, a map without a road.
Muscles aching and smiles faking,
the hours begin to unfold.
She’s not your average beauty queen,
stumbling down that graveled road.
She’s barely seventeen, but her father wouldn't know.
Though, almost close to home.
In any town, routines are shaking, people on repeat.
Strange hands on weak thighs, the easy go for free.
Twirling wrists, big hits, ramblings of high nothings,
“Come and play, to loose your way, trying hard to love me.”
Shy with abandon, those ghost eyes seem to be.
Trying in all honesty, to veil those bedrock lies, deprived.
She’s barely seventeen, crying acid tears, to fake believe alive.
Whispering she says, “Look me in the eye. And tell me where
to go.”
One man at the bar follows, wrong directions still her afterglow.
She’s not your average movie whore, classy and unsure.
She’s running to a nameless face, an act so planned before.
But the secrets are seemingly so,
no sex in all this age or soft kisses on the neck.
Nor held in two long years, it's barely a lasting look.
Vying to feel special in her comatose like life,
a taste of holy words, loosing selflessly in fight.
She’s barely seventeen, so be gentle at the least,
she crows a lonely tempo, hipbones pointed at her feet.
Looking in this virgin place, so quiet and profound.
Stepping stones in mono tone, dancing in that crown.
Those smoke rings rising high, that father of hers stares.
How, he hates her cheap tiara. But don't think she doesn’t know.
Surely this is what he bargained for, those curse words long be told.
Walking with some garden gnome, lilies holding cry.
This beauty queen is coming home, a fleeing way to try.
Her father undresses his memories.
Dreaming he may say,
“Hey skinny girl, yes little one, oh who are you starving for?”
Praying he may think,
“Hey, beautiful, oh wonderful, hey who are you waiting for?”
Daring he may breathe,
“Hey blue eyed doll, yes sweet heart, oh who are you hating
more?”
Suicide watch is over, she thinks, sad and embarrassed, afraid.
Haunting steps of fragile love, a debt to be repaid.
She’s barely seventeen, plainly, falling to her roots.
Her father lights a cigarette, his baby doll so near.
His head a swimming, sleepless rave. “Oh shit”, he can’t
be saved.
She’s coming close and he hates it, a welcome undeserved.
Nervous, pink cheeks burning lush; her butterfly wings taking flight.
The familiar blackbird calling, curious of tonight.
Suitcase by her side, she stumbles quite some more,
if only such a sight could erase an artificial whore.
And so, Daddy locks that door; there ain’t no home here anymore.
Rough hands shake the knob. That princess pearl, his little girl,
jaded of her colour.
Puking up those insides;
she’s kissing dirt
digging earth
screaming bones all over.
Tangled in a stranger’s sheets, you’re not sure why she
bothered.
That same lonely world you both sigh and crawl to isn’t such
a father.
She’s not your average beauty queen,
rotting in those self evaluations.
Pinned and aged with first impressions,
her demons do their chores.
She’s barely seventeen, pretending she’s worth more.
