I gambled against her centuries of experience. I said, maybe I've felt just as much as anyone,
but when I am seventeen,
and my world is as small as it is,
no one has lived like she has.
I think of Mother Willow's wrinkled face. She pulls back her green, tentacle arms and welcomes mother, daughter, babe into her nest.
Maybe your nest is built on a foundation of concrete and wooden slabs, but mine balances in the crook of a tree's elbow. Waiting for the wind.
My momma taught me beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but her eyes rotted and fell out.
11:11, I wish for a clean slate.
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