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The cuff of my light winter jacket
brushes teasingly against my hand
the rich golden brown paste, arranged in a henna pattern,
feels cool against my skin
But the liquid paste squishes sickeningly,
collapsing under the starchy cuff,
and just like that, a part of the henna
is irreversibly erased,
a curl here, a petal plucked from the flower,
those swirls of life that will never see the sky.

I was never good at following directions.

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fairygabby99 said...
Oct. 21, 2013 at 1:04 pm:
This poem is amazing! It really gives me an image. 
t.lee. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. replied...
May 25 at 12:14 pm :
Wow, thank you! I really wanted to paint an image with this poem.
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