I was too pure of heart.
There was a time, when I thought:
The world can only be one of the two non-colors
But then I started seeing the ugly grays
And I discovered that the world is not beautiful.

I was too pure of heart.
I covered my ears, but the sound remained
The sound of wood against flesh,
An endless beating,
And my mother’s wailing.

I was too pure of heart.
Because my breasts were too ripe,
The man who reeked of alcohol and smoke
Hunted me at night.
And I was no longer beautiful.

I was too pure of heart.
If breasts turn men into monsters,
I wanted to make myself ugly.
The food comes out where it comes in.
And they will never look at me the same way again.

I was too pure of heart.
But these marks on my wrists
And stomach and thighs
Are my scars from the battle that I fought and didn’t
Battles between myself and sanity.

I was too pure of heart.
It took me too long to realize
That a stick can make me feel relief
And can give me a temporary happiness
That thought I could never achieve.

I was too pure of heart.
And so does the woman in the red dress
And fame and celluloid and money.
But I grew up and older,
And she hasn’t yet.

I was too pure of heart.
But I have already learned
That beauty is too risky,
And purity is too perfect.
It’s too dangerous to have them.

I was too pure of heart.
As I sit alone on the park benches,
And watch the children play,
I realize that over and over
And over again.