At seventeen, her happiness is self made
and beautiful. Tailored to seventies chic
with the flair of the suit she sews with
such stylish hearts of hope. Innocent
of the hands she will be dealt,
his fingers greedy and strange.
A holiday stitched into a marriage bed.
No roses, just brown orange bottles
arranged in a glass cabinet that tinkles
with regret. The years dissolving
into sepia stains as she finds herself
left behind in a land without words.
Just his thirst and their apologies.
if she could travel back she’d warn
those gorgeous, trusting eyes.
Tear open that self assured poise
of a young girl with everything
to dream for. Rip from the camera lens
the future she once saw reflected, steal back
the years they took from her without asking.
by Aoife Mannix