Zoey

Little monster, easy fears,

her braids–

hair obtained from growing, are dead.

 

Her dress was always empathetic,

treated her skin well

beneath black sunlight.

 

Nightmares are the crust of sincerity,

within fog electives we bury–

the hands of passive-aggression.

 

Her swingset rots atop the hill with the Moores,

leaves easy-breathing shadows

sticky and incomplete.

 

Little monster, easy fears,

succumbed to mother’s beast–

ate the grasses of tombstone fetish,

grew never again–

rewound.