Virgin
A poem
Feb 14 · 1 min read
The dry air cracks her nostrils
Another drop of acidic blood
taints the white shawl draped
over her knees
She feels small
nestled in front of her laptop
will they let her build each step
for the character -for the ghosts
is it here in my house
in New England beneath the snow
That I’ll find her shivering -hanging on
just over the edge
A new home. A new hope.
Or will they fill her with candy
like a pulsing blueberry
that smiles with treacherous excuses
it is her yes and her no
that defines me
-Saschia Johnson
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