the need for reckless abandon
swims through my little girl veins
dolphins diving deliciously
through dangerous waters

the french on my lips and the
clouds in my eyes
aren't lying to you!
if our gazes met in
a library,
between bookshelves and
Margeret Atwood novels
I wouldn't be searching for
Alias Grace
sparking electricity
in your baby blues

Fiona Apple songs drift
lazily in and out of my memory
her old soul words echoing
in my mind
did Fiona have big women thoughts shattering
her little girl soul?
until she finally grew up?

I paint my toenails
the shade of mermaid scales
wondering if the iridescence
will sink deeper than my skin one day

one day-
the pearly white smiles and
tiny tanned hands clasped together,
sometimes parting
to push behind a delicate chocolate curl
in a little lady ponytail

will be real
that little lady image will be real
instead of the desperate desire for
red baby doll lips and
hands on hips
curls falling in front of eyes
over summer-coloured shoulders

wanton is my favourite word
of the English language
and I hadn't realized it until now