girlhood as aesthetic curation

i dream of being a painting.

i wonder what my writing would

do if i was a painting.

would my poems mourn me?

ache and yell and call my name

as though

divine mercy might bring

me back?

would they

be tucked away in the folds

of the blue dress

i was painted in?

would i weep in the painting

for

my dearest, but weep

in my heart for my poems?

(skeletons

crawling out of skeletons)

a painting

of me

would be divine

and promising

and not forgiving

she would be.

she would be.

my poems would reside

in my eyes,

as they do now

the difference?

it would all be aflame.