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Kaitlyn McGauley Nov 2018
Her fortress wall stood exactly 12,410 empty memories tall.
Crumbling brown bricks of broken promises.
Empty words precariously balanced upon lonely days and set among nights spent in the arms of another.

Until the artists' foolish knock.

Dubious exchanges of self, through fractures in her wall in which the sun peered through, risked permeating the soul and casting color by way of the elaborate stained glass windows he dared to solicit.

And so bricks she threw.

Disquisition of frankincense and myrrh.
Tarnished metals and warped wood tirelessly became freshly painted and brightly adorned stones of poetry and brass he proposed would sit where rock once rested.

And so bricks she threw.

One by one, and amidst her chaos of metaphors, he patiently picked up the shards of decaying wall she hurled.
Carefully tending to each flaw, he sculpted her a throne of good intentions.
Well formed promises he would keep, graceful words he would speak.
Inspiring sunrises and passionate sunsets in his arms of what could be her tomorrows.
Fragmented adobe became priceless art and rare gems far too precious to throw.
Her stronghold became a rare exhibit of her fears sealed away in well lit display cases.
From her towering stockade emerged a glass palace and everyone knows not to throw cinder blocks in homes of stained glass.
Nov 2018 · 543
Postcards from Home
Kaitlyn McGauley Nov 2018
There was a time when your arms were my home.
The length of your biceps were the halls I once walked and the crook of your elbow the place I once laid my head at night.
The scar from the time you fell from the mango tree, three inches above your right wrist, was the portrait that hung above my bed.
There was a time the fluttering of your eyelids were the opening of the golden tapestries that hung above the windows of my soul.
Your very essence the blue prints to the yard where my lavender and forget-me-not once grew.
There was a time your words and your promises were my prayers.
The sound of you breathing at night was my pulse.
Your "I love you's," once my "Amen's," are now a strange language spoken in twisted and heavy tongues with forced vowels and foreign consonants.
Spoken by the concierge in a lovely resort I would love to call mine, I am but a visitor in a place I once called home.
Nov 2018 · 172
Letting Go
Kaitlyn McGauley Nov 2018
Lost at the sea of what she once was, she reaches for the rocks that cut at her palms like false promises and gasps for air that stings her lungs like empty kisses once placed upon her lips.
Waves, which once playfully washed away her worries and called her to dance among the them, now beat upon her soul like the free flowing tears of a grieving mother.
Disoriented, minutes become an eternity and grey skies turn to blue seas that threaten to swallow her whole being...but only if she fights it.
And so she doesn't.
Bravely pushing herself off the jagged rocks that threaten to leave her maimed, slowing her breath to accept her truth, she allows the waves to carry her into the grey seas that now give way to blue skies and the fight becomes surrender. Her today becomes a yesterday.
Her nothingness now her everything.
She bids farewell and unto her sea she returns.

— The End —