I rise impalpable
from poked and scattered ash.
Memories from the 20 years I lived
leave a crimson rash
on my skin once as white as snow.
the skin they began to scar
when I was 11, too young to know
that they were not just scars.
they were the marks on the bark
of a green, tender tree-
marks of men (or brutes?)- wild
and untamed.
there was nothing left of innocence,
nothing left of rainbows.
I did not have my days to play-
instead I was being played with.
I, a delicate ***** white,
stripped and whipped and sold.
a love-bit nape, blackened sight,
named the girl of gold.
but no more, no more.
I have risen from the depth
with my soft body rugged
and sour breath
and teeth marks on my collarbone-
like it was only yesterday.
men and their laughs-
tormenting and know-all,
conspiring my fall.
Now that I'm awake,
risen from my grave-
(they were kind to give me one)
I shall give them back the scars
they etched upon my heart,
I shall give them back the pain.
the little purple bruises.
I shall torture them quite insane
and they would die,
they would eventually die with regrets-
regrets not confessed.
I would return to my grave
and smile,
maybe laugh the manly laugh-
tormenting and know-all,
I would be their fall.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
I rise impalpable
from poked and scattered ash.
Memories from the 20 years I lived
leave a crimson rash
on my skin once as white as snow.
the skin they began to scar
when I was 11, too young to know
that they were not just scars.
they were the marks on the bark
of a green, tender tree-
marks of men (or brutes?)- wild
and untamed.
there was nothing left of innocence,
nothing left of rainbows.
I did not have my days to play-
instead I was being played with.
I, a delicate ***** white,
stripped and whipped and sold.
a love-bit nape, blackened sight,
named the girl of gold.
but no more, no more.
I have risen from the depth
with my soft body rugged
and sour breath
and teeth marks on my collarbone-
like it was only yesterday.
men and their laughs-
tormenting and know-all,
conspiring my fall.
Now that I'm awake,
risen from my grave-
(they were kind to give me one)
I shall give them back the scars
they etched upon my heart,
I shall give them back the pain.
the little purple bruises.
I shall torture them quite insane
and they would die,
they would eventually die with regrets-
regrets not confessed.
I would return to my grave
and smile,
maybe laugh the manly laugh-
tormenting and know-all,
I would be their fall.
My first Plath-inspired.
