Her world is a fragile, paper one.
It could blow away
In one gust of air.
It could disintegrate into ash
With the introduction of one lit match.
It is as unsteady as a house
Built from autumn leaves.
But despite all its flaws,
it is the only world she has.
© 2020 Leona Petrovic
Image Credit HERE
You are the sun, and I am the rose,
reaching my arms for your warmth,
soaking it in, not realizing yet,
that too much is too much, and
my leaves are crumbling to ash.
People often caution against
“Too much of a good thing.”
But what if that “good thing” was never good?
What if I just thought it was?
Image Credit HERE
Why is it that the only talent,
we are all born with
is the innate ability
to cause pain.
It can lie hidden for years,
or allow itself to be coaxed out
by circumstances.
We are all convinced
of our humanity, our goodness,
we tell ourselves that our gods
are on our side.
But didn’t all conquerors and kings
think the same?
The ice upon the ground,
Has traveled up my spine
And filled my ears and mouth.
Waiting for a spring
I know will never come,
I watch as life drips by
Yet cannot make a sound.
I.
I cannot breath nor hear nor speak.
Your words fill my
Mouth and my nose.
Your voice fills my ears.
Trapped beneath this
Weight that buries me
There’s only the fear
You instill
And a rapidly shrinking
Air supply.
II.
It’s only when you have been
Buried by an avalanche
That you begin to know the truth.
White is the color of hell.
Never depend on anyone for your happiness.
Being independent is more than being strong or being single.
It means that if you cannot satisfy yourself.
Then you are not independent, because you rely on others,
to make your life worth living.
She watches the ocean waves,
she wants them to wash her clean.
Wash them all clean; everyone.
If they could just flood the earth,
wipe the dirty off the world and leave the clean.
Sweep away the blood and pain.
Maybe they could start anew?
Or would they go back to the hate,
the anger and the shit she has to deal with now?
“Heal us,” she begs to the blue water.
“Heal yourselves,” it whispers back.
inkgirlwords 