Gossip Is The Foul Smell From The

I Am Learning How To Be Angry And Sad And Lonely And Joyful And Excited And Afraid And Happy.

I Can See Us, Living In The Woods, Her Wearing That A, Me With A S Maybe, S For Silent, S For Stupid, For Scared. S For Silly. For Shame.

I Am Beginning To Measure Myself In Strength, Not Pounds. Sometimes In Smiles.

If I Had Lady-spider Legs, I Would Weave A Sky Where The Stars Lined Up. Matresses Would Be Tied Down Tight To Their Trucks, Bodies Would Never Crash Through Windshields. The Moon Would Rise Above The Wine-dark Sea And Give Babies Only To Maidens And Musicians Who Had Prayed Long And Hard. Lost Girls Wouldn't Need Compasses Or Maps. They Would Find Gingerbread Paths To Lead Them Out Of The Forest And Home Again. They Would Never Sleep In Silver Boxes With White Velvet Sheets, Not Until They Were Wrinkled-paper Grandmas And Ready For The Trip.

What Do I Want? The Answer To That Question Does Not Exist.