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Click hereAt four she wished:
Kisses,
pretty shoes,
and a baby brother... or a doll.
At eight she wrote:
Dear Santa,
I want skates,
a less annoying brother,
and dad to come home again.
At twelve, pen in hand:
Dear Santa,
if you're really there…probably not
but it can’t hurt to try. I wish
I was beautiful, or at least
that somebody would say so,
and maybe listen to
what I have to say
once in a while.
But if you want specifics… a bra,
and something to put in it.
At sixteen:
Don't believe,
don't wish,
don't care,
don’t wanna,
don’t look at me.
At twenty, once again:
Whoever you are, God in a red hat,
so this is a prayer,
right?
Give me yesterday back.
It's not my fault,
give me mom like she was,
not looking at me like that,
but smiling because she means it.
Give me days like once, a summer like then,
a rewind to erase it all, and summon
my fucking innocence back.
At twenty-four, and counting:
Give me something
to mark the passing of bygones,
a token of proof that draws a line
between who I was, and who I try to be.
Give me courage to hold on,
patience to hold out,
and a miracle,
just one,
kisses,
pretty shoes
and a baby.
This poem was selected from Lit's archive of over 39,000 poems for inclusion in today's Archival Review.<br>
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This literally gave me a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes...it's lovely...so very lovely..
~Honey