i am no longer a girl;
my body has played host
to the fourth of the Fates,
and this is the twilight, unfolding.
the midday has seen clotho, spinning the thread
has seen lachesis measuring it, atropos cutting it.
and here i sit, a figure in the sunset —
a silhouette of a weaver in tattered dress
my heartbeat, a substandard thread,
a mess in my pockets
getting shorter and shorter
with each wound sewn shut
and yet,
a seagull's flap,
a poke of a stick,
and all these stitches come undone.
a cautious breath,
a loosened thread,
and the sunsets learn a new shade of red.
Jan 14, 2020
Jan 14, 2020 at 4:38 AM UTC
i am no longer a girl;
my body has played host
to the fourth of the Fates,
and this is the twilight, unfolding.
the midday has seen clotho, spinning the thread
has seen lachesis measuring it, atropos cutting it.
and here i sit, a figure in the sunset —
a silhouette of a weaver in tattered dress
my heartbeat, a substandard thread,
a mess in my pockets
getting shorter and shorter
with each wound sewn shut
and yet,
a seagull's flap,
a poke of a stick,
and all these stitches come undone.
a cautious breath,
a loosened thread,
and the sunsets learn a new shade of red.
Request permission to use this poem