Picture a girl.

Patchouli on her wrist.
Can you smell her secret?
A shimmer in her eye,
But can you see her soul?
Line after line, fine and fine,
do you feel her exhaustion?
Sanded salt, bees wax soft.
Can you hear her words?
An autumn turban of fine strands wraps her head.
Do you know her mind?
Her thoughts?
Her revolutions.
Mineral dusted porcelain.
Can you touch her?
Can you reach deep into the velvet?
Can you thrust her onto the surgical table?
With the glistening silver cut her open.
Swim inside her blood,
now do you know her body?
Can you crawl inside her,
shred away the muscle to find the troubled child?
Hold up a candle,
can you see the the fibers bruised with time?
Balance on the bones.
Can you feel her pain?


One thought on “Picture a girl.

  1. The “line after line, fine and fine” sings.

    I want to believe we’re more than a sweet fruit that turns sour with bruises landed by the hard staves of time, that we can move past the vulnerable soul broken children into a future of divine wholeness. And that’s so easy to rattle off, a pledge of self-allegiance, a to-do list of ego. But can we ever, and can such adjusted consciousness be forged into a new self?

    Step one could very well be leaving the patchouli back on the bus. It was always just a coverup for the irrelevant unwashed of the 1960s.

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