Age 9: she grins without inhibition;
invincible, dueling cowboys and
banishing the calamitous spirits that go
bump in the wan night.
She’s her own fairytale, riding off
in a gown spun from innocence and
pixie dust.

Age 11: she finds a silver flask
tucked inside her sister’s ruffled
pajamas and pours it down
a porcelain bowl, watching as
her childhood flushes along with it.
Her pigtails get lower.
Her face droops and
each eyelid drags a
heavy leather suitcase.

Age 13: limp hair that covers her morose face,
she’s fading fast now, a shadow -- she’s
nearly a trick of the dim light she seeks solace in.
Pictures carved into her fragile skin.
A lukewarm smile pasted on for
public consumption.

Age 15: back on her skinny colt feet,
she’s still falling but
she’s on her way up.
The smile on her face is finally real,
and she can’t help but
think that maybe it will all be fine.
A little magic was all she needed,
a bit of hope to keep the world
squarely on her shaking shoulders.