Your aura consumes,
solar bright
red as birth.
I could give you the sky and still
you’d shrug off the clouds.
Your words puncture me,
pins through wet paper
salted scars needing ice cream.
Broken crystals, faded rocks splinter to
rubble in my pockets for open water
dragging me closer to you.

On the day I came to,
you stabbed me with ice
and shamed me for bleeding,
staining your bathtub black.
I grew back my colours in time,
doused myself in dandelions
whenever I felt you near and
gathered my shells
as you turned to shingle.
You planted flowers
and hoped I’d catch their scent in the breeze.
Forget me nots.






Jade Wright