Sunday, May 07, 2006

Nineteen

I remember how it was
to be stupid-young, so pretty and so
new to it, drunk on power like
a thirteen year old on strawberry wine,
my breasts my hair my navel
tarted out in ten-dollar tanktops
and thirty-dollar shoes. I threw myself at
the world, expecting it to catch me,
a million hands opening to receive
my bounty.

The closest practice I had for it was
when I was ten and had just learned
about mosquitoes - the way they follow
carbon monoxide back to the source, the way
that they can track you from miles away. I went
into my bedroom, knelt at the screen and
breathed out gently, watching with avid
glee the frantic swarming that
followed.

2 Comments:

At 3:34 AM, Blogger Umi B said...

You sound like you are very angry at being beautiful.

 
At 11:46 AM, Blogger Karla Andrich said...

Heh, well I need to do some editing here in that case - I clean up alright, but I think the only time I was "beautiful" WAS when I was nineteen and had that extreme youth and rampant horomones thing going for me.

And the poem isn't supposed to be angry at all - more like looking back on a time when you were such a different person that it's hard to recognise yourself.

 

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