A Woman is a Goddess Until the Party is Over

Small hands and small fingers

tightened by a grip that

never lets go.

Strange eyes follow her to the bathroom

with a window that’s never looked

out from but strained by passing eyes.

Her pigtails were still growing

but he tugged on them anyway.

She blushed at her reflection when it

stuck its tongue at her.

Though sculpted in a way that Venus de Milo

would envy, it only seeded

weeds that would die in a year.

Blood dripped from her pores

and she weeped with a

mouth too young to be kissed.

The party had begun before she was old enough

to attend, but no one protested.

At parties, the tick of a clock became her

whistle that forced itself forward from behind her tongue.

Other days, she saw bodies collapse upon the pavement

only to be molested by the flowers

that grew in between the cracks in the road.

She is a goddess to the world, but only

in between the first and last moon

revolving around her.

Champagne bubbles up when blood stops spilling

and seeds turn upward towards the sun

while yeast rises in bellies

that ache for something more.

There is a woman without a tongue

to keep for herself, but it’s pulled at when the big

hand of the clock falls forward.

And as it falls, she always talks about the grip

that callosed her fingers, but

no one ever asks if she’s breathing fine.

-—

As always, thank you for reading :)