Seventeen

The Girl in the Photograph
Withers while she Decays
Six feet under

A black velvet dress, matched with
tipsy high heels
and a plastered pale face

The glass went through her
As the photograph tumbled under the scraps of
Selfish thoughts, children swaying to paint, and the bitter taste of
summer

Her childhood lies in the batch of photographs
left in grandma's mossy car, where no one choses to go

We let her stay dead, never opening the box
For if we do,
we'll illuminate her eyes,
touch her senses,
and color her mistakes.