a life lived backwards
If someone were to write my life backwards,
a mystery would give birth to a broken girl
who defies attempts to tear her apart
(discarding beer and menthols
to find beauty in her own innocence–
a strange strength in naïveté).
This girl would erase the boys she’s kissed
while robbing men of the very parts of her they’ve stolen;
Tears would dry themselves as parents renounce addiction,
heal of mental anguish.
She would unspeak prayers asking God why,
knowing that some questions should never be asked
And at the end, she’d just be
a tiny beautiful girl with eyes that follow
color and ears that hear all sound as music.
Perfect and untouched;
she wouldn’t even understand the weight of her own ignorance,
of her own innocence… (in truth, aren’t they indistinguishable?).
Lived backwards, everything,
oh everything would simply be wonder.
Just, colorful, musical wonder.