at puberty — realizing nobody will touch you even when lights go low. With fingertips they would know what’s concealed in human hair is animal unknown (as far as you’re aware). You cannot hide, even in the dark, the indigo, sea green demarcations of neck not heart. Confide to best friend — breasts, bisexuality but don’t dare vulnerability of maybe inhumanity. Isolate to survive. Mutate teenage dreams of love, to stay alive, deprived girlfriends/prom dates, to breathe easier as something wild immersed in loneliness, forever child.
Kristin Garth is the author of 17 books of poetry including Flutter, Southern Gothic Fever Dream, The Meadow and Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir. She is the Dollhouse Architect of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and has a weekly sonnet podcast called Kristin Whispers Sonnets. Visit her site kristingarth.com and talk to her on Twitter @lolaandjolie.