question

a question posed by
rough, tender thumbs that sweep and catch the saline
falling from my trailing, mascara eyes.
why am i crying?
because i'm so small and my jeans don't fit.
because i own fifteen dresses and wear them all with a shirt.
i'm not the girl with the sixties hair and the high-neck,
i'm crying because my hair doesn't graze my shoulders yet.
because i want you to hold me.
and sometimes i don't.
i'm crying because i just want to paint pretty girls,
and not fiddle with cardboard and tape.
i'm crying because a second chance,
if ever,
is always late.

you love me so much
and i don't know why.