Growing Pains

Seven screams incendiary

to see her thoughts burnt on hot coals

she weaves her way through the fire

reds and oranges forge allies

to lick the very essence of her youth 

tastes so full of lust and desire

tastes of party frocks

and at the threshold of her paradise

her arms melt 

dancing with old flames 

trying to rescue

precious moments

another scar signs its name across

her sad doll limbs, now weightless

to the pain and ache of burst blisters

aches like a metaphor should, and weeps

a discharge; tears-hope-blood

any of the above

Seven believes it’s all to do with sin

her thoughts are so deliciously wicked

of flowers dying, of poisoned kisses,

and how she lets the blister pus drip

onto her lips until she goes numb 

with all that tomorrow promises

© 2007 P.A.Levy

First published by disentralled  2010