QueenofDawn

When my lungs run out of oxygen, I breathe in hope instead.
My tongue knows the taste of sweet imagination,
of holding on with stubborn fists,
and I sit,
spewing what-if’s until they fold themselves into carbon dioxide

I write apologies on the walls of my mind,
never eloquently,
never for you
because I am the one who should have to remember,
because you are the one who should be allowed to forget.

I don’t have the right words for this one

Don’t tell me I can fly.
Don’t tell me I can carry the sky on my small and trembling shoulders
because if it falls
it will only make that fallen weight more breaking.

    Sweya was the daughter of a weaver.

I was never one for poetry,
for hummingbirds and summer sweetness,
but when my mind began to write it’s own
I fell in love with cutting away the excess pieces.
I hadn’t realized the rhythm in these words,
the power they have