Rose glass girls
dancing between silky sheets of time,
only loving behind closed doors,
refusing to taint the pink tint of their worlds,
running from campfire boys of whom
would only melt them,
they dance between insults and injuries,
hold hands under a pretense of friendship,
smile at the support of others,
but refuse to believe it would be the same for them,
and they do it so beautifully.
How can such a terrible thing be so beautiful?
They were raised to make the pretty things gorgeous,
and the ugly things beautiful,
but what to do with the things that need no covers,
like freckles and lopsided ponytails,
rumpled covers and raindrop races?