I am going to burn that mirror
Complacent as it assesses its own sheen
Dousing the tourists with a can of worms.
The napalm sky will strike it with tongues of electricity
Spitfires nosedive, shards flying across the sea
It will never be pieced back like trimmed fondant.
The latter is sweet, a delight to senses
While this is a needle to the eye.
All forms contort,
My fingers are of Edward Scissorhand’s
Mouth, a floating smudge of a dark lipstick.
That 6 ft X 8 ft one, bathing in the newborn light
That will stay.
My chin arcs, cheeks stained with milk.
I drip of stares that spook others into jean pockets.
That mirth, of tomboy tendencies tattooed
Rushes in as curt warmth.
A garden of imperfections, unholy
My dusk skin
Will no longer beg of moonlight.
Malvika (17) believes that crafting words requires patience. The night is her refuge and poetry is one avenue to spill her thoughts. She is part of her schoolís debate team and is an apt reader of The New York Times.