an elderly woman talks about her daughter

The world has lost these pretty young girls.
Their angst has woven a different, more impenetrable
planet around them. They sob and weep about
atrocities that take place in other dimensions of space where
everyone else is a lost mother , a drunken father, a
neglected urchin of chance - versions of monsters under beds,
the dagger in the closet. They no longer know the importance of
mystery, of holding out because everything now
takes place outdoors. I would like to peep under their skirts and
find out if the myth is true -- if down there, there is really nothing
much you can see but a built in boombox, a transistor, and
dozens of blue and red connectors stumbling
all over themselves, pricking their veins that
are seas so blue they look painted on.
Their mouths are always hungry for trophies
of intellect, for disasters then and now,
for vague properties of love. They say words
like "atrophy" or "vindication"as if they were
new weapons that still have the capability to hurt.
But their convictions are different.
They prefer them raw these days so that they’d
be easier on the palate when they swallow
them whole. This fact alone makes me think
less of the weaker ones - the ones who scar easily or
those who consider a bad hair day an opportunity for suicide.
Maybe this is just me, wasting time.
In dreams, I see my younger self,
running with bared teeth, my brown skin
soiled with so much anger. I remember being unafraid.
But now, I ask myself, what was I running against? And for whom?