my mother insists
she was never a witch
but she gave me a bag of amethyst,
sunstones,
citrine

I am bruising over and
over, my hands underneath the sapphire
fire they turn scarlet not livid
like my skin, deep blue upon touch.

I dream of ghosts on lustrous seas,
spirits that see
the endless ends of this and
how vapour fades to
return to the ruins. Light,

she dances on crystals only
because inside it is cold, colder
than bitter winters I have not seen.

Teach me how to lie awake
in sleepless quiet, glittering with
answers. Teach me how to burn
like a comet before their great
fall.

I have bruises like amethyst
But the truth is I’m the catalyst
When I see colours of bismuth
I know you mean business
Bruises like amethyst
But you say you’re a pacifist
An analyst an activist

But you held my mind so it contorts, distorts
And aborts so it can’t resonate or fabricate
Or rationalise a world inside
That doesn't exist and insists
That I can’t be kissed and won’t be missed

I've got a black heart like tourmaline
But I'm the alkaline to your acid time
Trust me I am fine, I'm a pale blue
Crystalline Structural perfection
Don’t need your affection or your ways
Of objections did my bra strap give you an
*******?  

You could say I'm a feminist
But I'm more of a scientist
Busting body myths like biologist
You say ‘but **** are ****** organs’
Listen you morons, all ******* are a erogenous zone
Regardless of gender , boys nips literally have no purpose
Except when they get nervous for getting a little lip service

Trust me I'm fine, I'm a pale white crystalline
Structural perfection I don’t need your objection
Not a gem stone for your collar bone I don’t give a **** about
Your muscle tone, I'm a cyclone all alone I could spend a
1,000 years on my own.

None too far from those who see,
Crystals melt the ebony
Fire on water, ice on lake
Opposites to reciprocate

Earth on sand, mud on dune
Walking on the harvest moon
None too far  from those who hear
The melodic whisper oh so clear.

Sight and sound are all but lost
Dismissed, discarded, but at what cost?

It's 5:11am. A pretty time.
The street lights outside, in my dipped  valley lane,
glow orange against the soft, warm, gloomy shades of morn.
The pretty pitter-patter of rain I can
hear on the roof is adorning the bluebells in crystals which will twinkle when the wild wide world wakes.