nest

but when I am seventeen,

and my world is as small as it is,

no one has lived like she has.

I think of Mother Willow's wrinkled face. She pulls back her green, tentacle arms and welcomes mother, daughter, babe into her nest.

Maybe your nest is built on a foundation of concrete and wooden slabs, but mine balances in the crook of a tree's elbow. Waiting for the wind.

My momma taught me beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but her eyes rotted and fell out.

11:11, I wish for a clean slate.