In her tattered notebook, 

She finds solace. 

The yellowing crinkled pages aboard a vessel, tucked away behind a cabin door. 

Much like herself, the faded treasures she hides have yet to wash ashore. 

She unravels the threads wound tightly like a sea captain’s fist. 

The moonlight glows on her skin. Sun-kissed.

Copper curls draped over her shoulders align like a golden horizon. 

On these nights, she writes. 

 

Pretty girl, speak your mind

 

Ink glides across the pages like watercolor, 

as her bony fingers wield an enchanted paintbrush. 

Pen to paper. Never hushed, nor rushed. 

She closes the stanza like a preacher would a prayer. 

Painting the beauty who lives in the bar downstairs, 

Pouring drinks from noon to night, 

Wishing she could wear a blouse a little less tight. 

 

Pretty girl, speak your mind 

 

By midnight, and after a few rounds, 

the men stumble up the stairs and come knocking at her room. 

Howling under the full moon. 

Tracking her, chasing the scent of her perfume.

But by the afternoon, 

they abandon their trip, go down with the ship. 

Still, they trace her with tainted eyes.

She grasps her dress to hide her thighs,

as she passes by the liquor store. 

She won’t walk home that way, anymore. 

 

Pretty girl, speak your mind

 

After the day settles in for the night, 

once all three locks are turned tight to the right, 

she turns out the light.

Looks out the cracked window pane to the starry night.  

In her notebook, she paints her canvas as the candlelight glimmers.

She kicks off her muddy, ruby red slippers.

Like the rusted corkscrew in her bottom drawer, 

her mind creaks as it unwinds. 

She has picked this habit like a wild sunflower, 

and in doing so, much more.

It grants her seeds for her garden, all her own.

Tenderly grown.

All the wisdom she has earned,

underscored by the craft she has learned.

No more wordless nights, or internal fights,

which once left her bed tossed and turned.

 

Pretty girl, speak your mind

 

Now in her notebook, with a broiling pen stroke,

she splatters the ink and watches it soak. 

Imaging smoke.

She refuses to blink, won’t sleep a wink, 

until she can unwrap the threads that bind all she thinks. 

 

Pretty girl, speak your mind

 

Her words are priceless, while she has not a dime. 

Pulling golden thread from the depths of her mind. 

Granting her more blessings than a priest ever could. 

Unafraid of her pride in her womanhood. 

Words are honest, they do as they should. 

They travel beyond her world of cheat and deceit.

Her words are the gem she can afford. 

Her reward. 

For when she is grown, 

someday in a home, 

she will read them aloud.

Plucking her heartstrings before a crowd. 

Each day, she will play a beautiful cord.

 

Pretty girl, speak your mind.