What was poured early, spills.
Even if you dispose of the wholeness of it
in the vastness of the ocean and leave,
even if you hate it,
it returns
like my inherited mindset.
From the fiery battlefield
where I used to survive,
from the dusty corners
shouting glitter-coated reputation and blood-bound unity, where I hid my swelling, sparkly eyes.
So I tied my pale sky-blue shoelaces and ran with all my strength
I tucked my bruises in my bones
and wished I could fly.
But to my surprise,
what was poured early still spills.
It is a portrait with a face,
held together
by what it cannot keep
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 5:14 AM UTC
What was poured early, spills.
Even if you dispose of the wholeness of it
in the vastness of the ocean and leave,
even if you hate it,
it returns
like my inherited mindset.
From the fiery battlefield
where I used to survive,
from the dusty corners
shouting glitter-coated reputation and blood-bound unity, where I hid my swelling, sparkly eyes.
So I tied my pale sky-blue shoelaces and ran with all my strength
I tucked my bruises in my bones
and wished I could fly.
But to my surprise,
what was poured early still spills.
It is a portrait with a face,
held together
by what it cannot keep
A poem for a painting
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