poem: “flowers at fifteen”

the thrum of excitement
from telling those boys
the things we liked to do –
putting hands between our legs
pushing boundaries we didn’t set
tasting skin that wasn’t ours

see
we learned at a young age
the power we held
in the swell of our breasts
the subtle curves of our bodies
the heat between our legs
plush lips soft skin shiny hair

we worked magic with our words
until those boys were panting
over the phone line –
their shaky breath making us feel
like we could rule the world

I wish I had realized then
that having boys lust after you
isn’t important when you’re only fifteen
and can’t even stand to look at yourself
when your clothes are off
and there is no audience

I wish could have seen the potential
that grew inside me like a garden –
possibilities waiting to be plucked
like petals from a flower

he loves me
(fluttering lashes breathy sigh curves and thick thighs)
he loves me not
(do not touch do not touch do. not. touch.)

I love me

(kind brave intelligent free)

It just took time to realize
which mattered more

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the wind is like
the song of a hell angel
crooning through the
kudzu covered mountains

the engine joins the refrain
like the roar of a coyote

my laughter is the chorus
being chased by that
of my soul sister

it is strange how
moments like this –
with the wind whipping
through my hair and
the breath stolen
right out of me –
make me realize
how good life can be

 

— and how bad it was before