I am

By Staci Eckenroth

I am
the petunias
outlined in purple like the velvet
you dressed me in, fenced into
the garden by dandelions and
chicken wire.
And I die with the smear of sunsets, where
after a while everything fades.
You left me reaching my fingers
towards something solid, but I can’t
keep rooted to you.

And I am
the little girl in a Cinderella
dress you made,
drained of apologies for broken things,
and tears in fabric,
searching for daylight
and cloudless mornings
when punished with darkness.

And I have worn too much makeup,
then not enough,
worn my hair right, then wrong.
Your definition of perfection
is my face in the center of the page,
a slanted signature at the bottom of a degree,
but you don’t know about my name
carved into the pills I take,
or the cigarettes I smoke.
My face smiling out from the page
disintegrates into separate pixels
that add up to nothing at all.

And I have never seen the meaning
in the moonlight and stars;
my feet don’t dig deep enough.

 

Staci Eckenroth is a junior Creative Writing major at Susquehanna University from South Amboy, New Jersey. She likes black-and-white photography, long necklaces, and the color yellow. Staci also has a tendency to buy too many books that she fears she won't have time to read.