Blood and soil make a home under my fingernails,
the water in my bathtub boils,
and I start to think about why it all had to end this way.
I wonder if she’ll remember me when I was fighting off hordes,
or if she’ll remember me pure, on a Sunday,
barely up to my father’s knee.
I used to have daisies in my braids,
and the world hadn’t gotten to me yet.
She never saw it,
but I wonder if she remembers.
It’s important to me, for some reason, that she knows I wasn’t always jaded and jailed by my cynicism.
I want her to know that there used to be a girl who believed in magic, just because it was nice, rather than believing out of desperate sadness.
There used to be a girl who used to cover her hair in the presence of unrelated men,
blushing and begging God to guide her on the right path,
but now there is a woman,
who lets her hair meander, with a menacing glare,
and tells God that she’s going to go wherever she needs to go.
so I hope that she will too.
Whoever finds me,
when I’m drained, down on my luck and just distant enough from the world to be drawn back.
I hope she understands that I never did anything that the world didn’t ask of me,
because it’s been pushing me,
poking at me for the longest time,
someone just snaps,
there is soil sleeping under my fingernails and when she presses her lips to mine, she tastes blood.
“Don’t be afraid”
but that’s a bit unreasonable,