Her softness is powerful,
like the whispering winds sending warnings down chimneys.
Her touch silences the storms rattling my ribcage,
as if she, too, could walk on the tide that rises in my stomach.
Her eyes are a palace,
spun of a silver dream
that she found beneath her mother’s floorboards.
To her, a body is a sack of dust she wears as a wedding dress,
while the world would label her as a saturated sinner her father forgot to price.
To her, milk is vodka
and sunsets are white pills.
To her, a shadow is a friend,
and a corner is where their conversation collides with conclusions.
To her, lipsticks are stitches,
but wildflower bouquets are needles sewing up her seams.
She knows how to settle the wars within her,
with melodies of hope she drinks from a golden glass.
She drinks the nectar of a pastel future,
and in her hair she wears wisdom as a wreath of flowers.
She won’t be seen on the streets in the day,
but at night, her fingers chalk constellations into the concrete.
She won’t be seen at the party sporting a red,
plastic cup or crying in the corner.
She’ll be found legs bent over a tree,
flesh littered in bee stings and berry stains.
She is hunted
as if the hunter hadn’t considered that she might be the wolf at his heels.
She grows in a wasteland,
and even the cracking and crumbling sky knows it cannot drown her.
(image from pinterest)
This is an excerpt from Essence of An Age: A Poetry Collection due for publication this year