Ianthe

November 29, 2017

Your softened lips coat sugary words,

thick with honey, maple sap,

cold espresso on my tongue,

bitter like you,

shove mountains of ash down my throat,

all the things you try to say,

through the crackling embers,

of the birch trees in my backyard,

i am a victim of the strung-high sentences,

rolling off your lips,

the way you try to crack my limbs,

rip them apart from tendon to tendon,

make me feel hollow,

empty like the bird's abandoned nest,

solely meant for your pleasure alone,

coughed up,

from the remnants of better things,

the thrown-out leftovers of a masterpiece,

you reached your hand deep down inside,

and pulled out the pretty sentimentalities,

of my brain,

all rolled up into the stem of my favorite flower,

mixed with the hot breath steaming,

out of my mouth,

and i cried as you plucked,

piece-by-piece,

every strand of hair from my head,

every soft-stemmed blossom from the garden inside my mind,

you took each one,

holding them in your hand gently,

then crushing all of them at once,

you even took the one that made me smile,

on rainy days and cold winter afternoons,

when tears bled silently from my eyes,

after waking in the night,

shivering in a cold sweat made of nightmares and saddened shards of glass,

the one i watered when the velvety soil dried up,

my plum-petaled bloom, my ianthe.






Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback