Meghan Bennett
I accuse myself of only loving the shiniest things,
confusing possession with infatuation
if it means I get to keep my nest of golden strings
and pretend away that they don’t lead to me.
The thing about reflections is they still sting
when you wrap your lips around them.
They cut my explanations into ribbons
with razor edges as they grace my tongue,
swallowing me in turn.
I hunger for the dazzling,
even still. Refractive conquests
I can pin in my hair, fix in my eyes,
I am prettier when I am spun from my straw.
My feathers will unravel when they come plucking
for their threads, but until then,
you’ve never seen as sparkling a thing as me.