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They're Real Enough

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the crescent moons you've pulled from your fingertips
littered on the carpet,
colorless, unlike your vomit-pink wallpaper
that you've had since you were four.
Your mother says now that it reminds her of
the lipstick she used to wear
before she grew up and
forgot how to be pretty—
like you will, undoubtedly—
but you dream of a time years from now,
where you will have creamy eyelids,
a button nose,
and no scars to speak of
even though you can see them
forming on the heels of hands and knees
because life will give them,
as a gift.




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