for girls who can't write.

iwasbornintheskies:

five—a—day:

when she asks you what you think
of her poetry, tell her the truth.

tell her it is weak.
tell her it is empty.
tell her it is limp like the dead children
they drag out of wombs and still christen.

tell her you prefer her dancing.
you prefer her hips. you prefer her toes
like pointed exclamation marks.

tell her she is the poetry; 
she doesn’t need to write it, too.