I let the beast tear to shreds
the sheets of pure white on my bed.
The snow fell in tangent
and spilled through the attic
and froze like soft beads on my head.
And I dreamed that there were ghosts in his eyes
as conspicuous as the sun in rainy skies.
And they haunted some shadow
that filled the well until overflown
and the rims of his lids swelled as he cried.
I stole a glance from my book,
and pondered some thought that he took.
I forget what I knew
and forsake lowering my view,
I’m stolen by that sweet, broken look.
And I watched the sun flicker out
and the butterflies flittered around,
before a fleet to the sky
to become the stars in his eyes
with wings beating soft without sound.
And I saw a harp by the place
where the fire burned bright and erased
the things he threw in,
every nightmare, every dream,
every part of his past, every page.
I spied a smile on the bay,
it broke and it spoke, and looked away.
I saw the eyes silver-blue
with flecks of sweet velvet and dew.
The green of the grass bled into the sky
and the world was repainted anew.
I feigned some sort of thought in my heart
even though the thought tore me apart.
The man in my arms
was long-lost from sweet charms
and this was my twenty-fifth start.
And another that I whispered away
I secreted myself to the page.
I floated on clouds
but fell through to the ground
when I couldn’t convince him to stay.
And I spied a hole in my soul
opening wider with every new blow,
every day he was gone,
I felt that lost and alone
and there was nothing new that I didn’t know.
And I followed no beaten path,
I’d lost what I had never had.
My heart and my life,
and I could have lied
to keep him away from my past.
And I woke in the morning just one more time
and saw his arms intertwined with mine.
Our home here before me,
a nightmare had plagued me
and scared me more than the end of my life.
I’ll go ahead and apologize for this now. My mind is frayed. I’m worrying myself over the last few days of school and I still have to get everything packed up to move out Thursday. It’s just taking a little bit of toll on my, so my writing my feel a little stunted for the next few days or so until I can finally relax again.
I wish not for just a moment
with that child of me,
with her hair tied up and a disguise of a smile
that would echo that whispery breeze of truth
that so eluded and so ill to believe.
And in that moment I would spill
the circumstance of every day to pass
and every moment that she would cry
and the fewer moments that she would laugh.
And I would ask a selfish plea to her
that she would dare not undertake,
I would ask her to keep that life she lives,
to remain every piece of the girl she is
and write her story the same way.
And that selfish child that I used to be
would refuse all that I’d ask.
She would demand every detail full and stolen
from what has been for me, would be for her,
our present and future past.
She, in every right of hers,
would change what she would do,
and everything I love and cherish
is everything that I would lose.
She would suffer no hell that I
have taken to bruise and scar.
That child of me, despite my plea,
would refuse everything we are.
She would take no lessons
and end with some other kiss
from some other love, from some other man
far differing of this.
I wish for never a moment
given to my past,
because I love this life that I have been given,
and I love this man I have.
And had I just one moment
with the child I have been,
I would lose what I love so
and what blessings I’ve been given.
I cannot regret the pain
that has since brought me here.
For this life I would have suffered all the more if needed,
and taken every tear.
What tapestry on some crumbling wall
had that sad misfortune
to steal its threads from my repertoire
and weave into unsatisfaction.
And spill upon it blood and ink
of those that I’d forgotten,
and wipe away what stains I left
when I had still been broken?
And why should seamstress continue working
on an artwork solely done
and forsake that which she reprimanded herself
to walk dark the side of sun.
And weave ribbons of silver
into her once youthful hair,
why should she scar every finger
with needles that don’t care?
And then pass blind to some weak soul
as if I had some clue
how to rescue my small part of this world
with needle, thread, and rue.
And use that which enslaves my tender
heart beneath a womb
to believe that this sweet tapestry sanctuary
will someday become my tomb.
And the sun stops tanning pale, burned shoulders
and my face so gray beneath,
I fear that I shall meet this woman,
as sparsely as I believe.
And should I have that audacity
to believe that I cannot serve;
well what course shall Karma serve to me?
Something less than I deserve.
And should I stop weaving, stop spilling blood and ink
and erasing my own stains,
surely the beasts of otherworldly hells
will shoot poison through my veins.
But I have aged, as others in youth
have never in their time.
I’ve no ill will, no broken past,
so I replace those pains for mine.
I reweave every strand of hope,
recleanse every heart,
but when did I become this guardian
that is tearing me apart?