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the dead bat souls of kirsty warmeir
April 9, 2017
kirsty warmeir braided her hair into lopsided snarls
ignoring the deep shards of crystal sliding into the strands
kirsty warmeir threw her hands under the unrepentant sobs of the faucet's greedy snout
washing and washing until tears of red cracked through scabby ravines
kirsty warmeir scuffed her face with dead bat souls and nomadic stains of settled stop signs praying for the dead bat souls to come back and
they didn't come.
no one loved kirsty warmeir.
© Alice B., Sarasota, FL
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I hope that this poem leaves behind the message of self-love's vitality; others will not always be there for validation.