Five and a half letter

At four she wished:
      Kisses,
      pretty shoes,
      and a baby brother... or a doll.

At eight she wrote:
      Dear Santa,
      I want skates,
      a less annoying brother,
      and dad to come home again.

At twelve, pen in hand:
      Dear Santa,
      if you're really there…probably not
      but it can’t hurt to try. I wish
      I was beautiful, or at least
      that somebody would say so,
      and maybe listen to
      what I have to say
      once in a while.
      But if you want specifics… a bra,
      and something to put in it.

At sixteen:
      Don't believe,
      don't wish,
      don't care,
      don’t wanna,
      don’t look at me.

At twenty, once again:
      Whoever you are, God in a red hat,
      so this is a prayer,
      right?
      Give me yesterday back.
      It's not my fault,
      give me mom like she was,
      not looking at me like that,
      but smiling because she means it.
      Give me days like once, a summer like then,
      a rewind to erase it all, and summon
      my fucking innocence back.

At twenty-four, and counting:
      Give me something
      to mark the passing of bygones,
      a token of proof that draws a line
      between who I was, and who I try to be.
      Give me courage to hold on,
      patience to hold out,
      and a miracle,
      just one,
      kisses,
      pretty shoes
      and a baby.