elise.writer

I can't do this anymore.
Molasses presses down my throat, tasting blue.
What I wouldn't give
To lift these rusty shackles
And cry to the fading evening of
Everything I live for as whole and true.
Some genetic authorities of mine

I.
Do you ever feel like
For every step forward, it's two back?
Self-betrayal tastes sour and parched
On my tongue, my values stamped out like a flame.
The faded yellow parchment never crossed my path,

When I was younger, my cheeks were chubby
and my hair was strewn into thick brown snarls.
When I was younger, my freckles were imbalanced
and thrown on haphazardly over a sheen of pale skin.

No.
Spring is just another array of pain.
So don't tell me that
The flowers and birds and bees scatter any hope across the land.
Because the truth is,
Spring is just handcrafted from the same silky sorrow as before,

I thought anger would feel like a wildfire
Red hot and scorching
Tearing through this slender frame
Flames licking the crisp air.
I thought the cry would be sharp and short
Piercing and defined
Smooth and steady. Like poison,

A pink dew drop in bloom
petals curling towards the open sun
away the heavy clouds zoom
wrenching hearts from winter gloom

Creak open the door and run
toeing into the squishy brown ground
gallop through the mud, free and fun