Some cope with loss by trying to wipe the past, pretend it never happened. They build anew, over old places, the ones that strike memories while others, the artists, the poets, smear it over paper, let it thaw over years and years.
She looks at fireworks
And the child in her resurfaces
I watch her, my stomach twisting
And despair creeping up my throat
She’s silhouetted against the night
And the skyline of this city
And I am afraid
For her, for what comes next.
She’s the torch in the night
And I run my way back
Skipping a step at the stairs
To the dark that feels familiar.
And I envy her
She’s brimming with delight
And I feel like my insides
Are burning and curling
I run my way back
So that I don’t run into decay.
There’s this girl, alive, mad and a masochist, all rolled into one. Her eyes are amber, brooding, and her scars, they run a bit too deep.
I’ve looked just enough to burn and frey at the seams
There’s another girl, pale skin, gold and cedar haired , with topaz eyes that remind me of summer sunrises. She is the living example of how an ideal person should balance life. But the other day I saw parallel cuts across her arm and wondered if anyone had it easy at all.
There’s this other girl, so different for everyone else, she is like the night sky when it is dipped in clouds, veins and tendrils of grey and ivory threating to overcome the sky; she is the moon that preserves beauty when at midnight the world looks like an unending slate of obsidian but she is also the thunder that cleaves the world apart. I wonder when she’ll learn of her own power.