I used to think she was innocent,
childlike, wispy and naive, with irridescent
wings and eyes, her limbs like willow
branches, everything about her fifteen
years, and slight.

But now, I haven't even read Nabokov,
and I know fifteen is not innocent.
"Sirens bear the breasts of maids"
is what I had forgotten. I remember
now.

She matured with me, though. Now her
curves are full, her lips still pout,
and as she bends across my desk and spreads
her wings, I see they're made of sinew and silk
stained red and black.

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ChaoSpirals