THE WORLD BECKONS

One day at seventeen you'll meet a boy at a time you've wrung yourself out,

stretched your skin taut,

split all the love you thought is possible to carry with fractured fingers.

and when the poison always dances in the bottom of the bottle,

in the middle of your palms,

in the depth of your consious,

he'll touch you like a prayer,

look at you like you were carved from the moon  herself,

so when you are nineteen the world once again beckons,

calls your name in wispy winter song,

instead you dance in the fire with a body never meant for coal.

blister. peel. the skin never fully heal.

you gave your soul away the first day of spring to the first boy who dolled out the quarter smile remember:

                         you were still moonlight before he claimed you.

                         still threaded with scriptures before he learned to read.

                         the world will still beckon long after you've whittled flesh to ash so/ answer.