Eight-year-old girls, those rosy, raggedy fiends.

Bedecked in scraped-up knees and scratched-on skins.

Pigtails unfurl within their senseless dreams,

Bubbly soft lungs sing out the sweetest sins.

With tender hearts encased in mischievous grins.

And swiftly blooming, see their spines grow tall.

Enigmas scattered on the playgrounds' winds,

these creatures answer to some ancient call

Long limbs entangled in a graceless sprawl,

beastly demeanors masked by painted lips.

Sixteen, and in their hands, they wield it all.

The oceans would obey the swing of their hips.

With splendid joy, they scream and burn and cry,

bodies and souls laid bare under the sky.