Love came around on a Sunday afternoon.
A time when trees whispered sweet nothings to the wind
and her heart sung to the tune of another’s voice.
A time when faint lines danced across his face,
chasing the laughter and the smiles in criss-cross patterns
when butterflies stormed in her belly after
having been awakened by the vibrant thumpthumpthump of his heart.
But heartbreak always comes with Monday morning.
A time when the muscles between her ribs ached for
a breath of relief from the constant holding of air.
A time where his lungs wished to be pushed into the deep
so that they may only feel the water and not the emptiness,
when the butterflies sunk down to her toes under the weight
of the splintered remains of his broken heart.
Love came around on a Sunday afternoon, and suffocated on a Monday morning.
I hate my reflection
It stares back at me with cold eyes
And a skewed perception
Of what I am,
There is no question
I need to be someone else
Someone who gives a ****
This is my regression.
I was 6 years old and my mother
said I had words in my mouth
that came from an old woman's tongue.
Words and letters came to me
before I knew how to
open my unripe jaw
I was 8 years old and my teacher
told me to speak more
that the words I had on paper
were too grand to be ignored.
- but I was too silent and too afraid
of all the mouths that would open
before I could whisper "Just wait."
I was 11 years old and my brain
spoke so loud it was screaming
at my tongue to move
but before I formed a syllable
but before my jaw opened
my raised hand was ignored.
I am 18 now and my heart
finds comfort in the secret familiarity
of bleeding what my brain cannot
release onto pages and pages
of poems that mark the place of a girl
well beyond her years.
— The End —