Begins when you are ten. Attack, surprise,
you can’t defend. A friend, they say, but do
they make you bleed and want to die? Disguise
in black your need, the stain that says you’re
a girl that’s dead enough to grieve. To wake
in sheets as red as photographed true crime.
A being marked to give that once did take
awakes ashamed, a sieve for secrets, time,
suspended self — to suffer silent, serve,
a pretty picture on a shelf. At ten,
you want to scream contempt but lack the nerve
not celebrate what feels just like an end.
A burden blamed since apples and the flood
on women’s shame. This bond begins with blood.
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola. in addition to Rag Queen Periodical, her sonnets and other poetry have been featured in Occulum, Faded Out, Quail Bell Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Fourth & Sycamore, Murmur Journal, Society for Classical Poets and many other publications. She’s currently constructing a dollhouse chapbook entitled Pink Plastic House: Three Stories of Sonnets. Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie.