Yellow, and waxy smooth in shape they spiral down
The color of banana peels and rubber ducks,
Not enough to crunch,
Just the occasional skittering sounds from an accidental nudge
Of a laced up black boot.
It’s all lit up by pouring color
Painting the world pale gold and dusty blue,
Dimpled footprints across dusty sand,
Perhaps foreshadowing of future eons of crushed cement.

Evoking an image of rusted door hinges and creaking sheds,
Orange drips from ripened fruit,
Dappled dry reds of a curling leaf or faded velvet skirt.

And down below and oil painting of bottle green glass and soft leather,
Glinting and undulating in a translucent serenity.

Paint turns to pastel further out,
Smooth hints of pink on touches of sighing blue and perfect cream with lemon zest.

Oddly blending with the metallic rumble of heavy strings,
Thin black wings
And soft fabric on palms,
Warm light and a cool breath.

Interrupted by a jolting movement of a graceful, curious silk spinner,
Who dropped, and frightened the delicate moment away.

Paint me a picture
Of your skin
Does it bronze beneath the sun?
Or sizzle and blush
Like your cheeks
When you’re in love?
Is it soft to the touch
Like when your palms graze
The smooth surface of water?
Or rough around the edges
Like your favorite book
And its lovingly worn corners?
Does it melt in the heat
Like sweet syrupy treats
Dripping through your fingers?
Or does it welcome the winter
With wide open arms
As if greeting a lover?
Paint me a picture
Of your skin

As silence settles, and a kingdom of faint bronze on haunting ebony appears,
A scrawny lion spins a broken record in my ringing ear.

Weighted walnuts, or perhaps slow bullets, strike just below the spot where my ribs meet:
Mental hiccups.
Sentencing the calm to its defeat.

Then they come,
Crashing over my skin in icy waves,
Like ghostly spiders, leave raised footprints in their hurried wake.

Imagined strings lifting my hand towards the pin or blade,
Weightless ropes pulling my steps closer to the precipice.
The lazy, stilling terror in my stomach providing just enough weight
To keep me frozen in place.

They wrench open the doors protecting peace,
Obliterate the floodgates of my internal screams,
Marching in with their roiling hellhounds, uninvited,
Chanting horrid songs, voicing their desires, unrequited.

Over and over, their wretched requests bring horrific imagery about,
When they finally subside, taking with them prowling demons and low growls,
They neglect to close the door on their way out.

Waking up without a telltale dryness in my eyes,
The morning grey light’s cool blue tinge caressing my cheeks
I step outside.

Gone are hollow, yellow air and hauntingly pink sun, of diluted blood
Replaced by a spongy sky.
Replaced a clatter across dry leaves, a creak of thirsty trees, like snapping and groaning bones
Coolness drips into my hair and drizzles on my arms

Wash away this acrid flavor from my lips,
Carry the dust and drying weeds from my lungs,
Bring blossoms to the thorny brambles tangling my ribs

Settle on my eyelashes,
Fresher than all this dry fear
Trickle down my throat and cool away the dancing fire demons
Tormenting my soul.

Soothe my splintered state of mind,
Turn cracked earth to loamy mud
Wash the dreading from my veins,
Bringing life to blood.

I can hear the accusing tones downstairs,
Muted yelling from below,
Can’t make out his words
‘Cause the pitch is too low.

Wincing at the thud of something hitting the floor,
Stomach twisting at the sound of tearing paper,
Pulse quickens as I hear him slam a door.

I shouldn’t have directed him towards her when he came to pester me.
Now everyone in the house is on edge,
So I’ll busy my hands and mind by keeping the kitchen clean.

Stop touching my sides
Just because I let you touch me like that once before
Doesn’t mean I’m yours

I wish for misty drizzle days
Instead this dusty smoke,
A cheap replacement for petrichor.

Longing for the cozy hug of a droopy sweater or flannel shirt around my shoulders
I find comfort in soft cloth.

Waiting for late mornings,
Cups of steamy tea,
Or frothy cider with warming spices,
Faded book covers and stretching knitted blankets,
Gray dawns and wordless smiles.

Because I am a mouse,
Who munches on crunchy orange and yellow leaves for inspiration.

Who admires the fluttering and faintly glimmering spiderwebs,
Adorned by tiny drops of diamond dew.

Who loves dripping,
Just barely ripe apples
Ones with pieces that tear away with a juicy crunch.

Who hides her soul in towering, curly fern leaves,
Surrounded by ghostly green tree moss,
Wispy strands hanging down like ancient whiskers.