A poem by May Sarton, seperated into four different themes. I interpreted this poem as an outsider's take on four different girls, each one closer to death as the collection goes on. It starts with "She raced like a young colt" and finally releases into "She only ran to give."
As the final poem, "She only ran to give" is the poem that represents the girl closest to death. This is about a girl who found so much beauty in the world that she was weakend by it. In reality, she was raised by a wealthy family of high standards that choose to ignore the signs that showed she had a mental illness. Meloncholy so tender, swelling her young flushed heart. Bare feet danced their mellow goodbye for the last time. Sweeping her frailness over the shiny floor. The plastic bag rustled like bird's wings against moist summer air. Her fingers intertwined the ghostly loops, she tied a bow around her neck, her ethereal limbs slunk closer to the floor, and she let it flow right through her.
Over the past three years or so, I've been looking at the world in a different way, but particularly women. Young women, for as long as I can remember, have always sparked both love and resentment in me. This poem for me is about young girls struggling through life. Abuse, depression, sickness, confusion, heartbreak. This is for the wilted roses, once the evny of darkened concret below, now blotted pink, the feminine stain. This is for the girls who spend humid summer nights locked behind glass doors, solid, cold floor grazes their soles and sheets thinner than the abandoned whispers in their minds breathe over their skin. For the girls who keep a razor chained around their necks to gather them up in sharp, knowing arms of comfort. For the girls who queit the silence with soft doe and sugar. For the girls who find tranquilty while slouching over the porcelain fountain. For the girls who wake up to their brittle bones aching, yearning for freedom, but only to recieve more government. But, mostly, this is for anyone who wakes up and contemplates life and death before first period. Blessed be.
I think this poem is about an anorexic girl who has felt the need to restrict pleasure from her life. She has so much life and love inside her, but she holds it behind the gates of denial. Her nimble fingers, so pale with defeat, trace over the lines of misinterpretation she drew on her own map. Now, locked up in a hospital in the middle of the woods. She questions her own existence.