For the Love of a Girl with a Pink Rose in Her Hair

Her name isn’t Asifa

Though it could be. She could be eight years old, too.

She likes to fuss over her own hair, the rose placed just so. Not the rough, any ol’ way She does.

She might be ten. That rose makes her feel pretty.

Until the pretty of the pink gains weight as the head is bowed between another’s to take

him

a breath

them

To be parted like that is to

be scalped

By the highest bidder

Who likes them young enough to bend but not break

The spirit…

Of that little girl. She waits.

Asifa, Layla, Paula, Patrice, Denitra, the young might-be-a-little-Frida.

They could be. They Were.

They are no longer.

Sold to the highest bidder.

Sold out to the gravest sin.

For a bottom dollar,

no longer.

But still a vision with a pink rose in her hair.

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