a letter to my twelve-year-old self
The line will vary, day to day. Let it.
Its end will swoop sometimes, and
sometimes droop. Don’t let those
girls tell you where to draw it
or that guy say how. Follow
the fringe of your lashes, stay close
to the irises, their pupils open
wide to fathom the world they see.
Learn how a line can deceive – or reveal.
Forsake it from time to time. Go by feel.
Let your blue be naked and pale,
the hottest part of a low flame.
Next day, fly too close to the sun
on black wings born of your thin pen.