twoblueviolets

How did we get here?  
With a man who lies  
and stirs the storm,  
who turns hate into headlines  
and power into a joke.

Footprints of tourists painting the sand,

The cries of the ocean berating the land.

Chappell Roan and milestones,

Informing the world we aren’t fighting alone.

Ten teenagers talking til the old year gives way,

* am burned at the stake of cursed femininity. 
Something of a goddess and a martyred myth. 
* suppose those are one and the same. 
You juxtapose ** between a revolution 

Dear daughter of Earth, 

I am not naked, rose-lipped, chapped and chaste in a poetic caste and silhouetted erotically before sunset and starlight like the Thinker gazing across foreseeable perpetuity. 

I am eight. I sit across from my mom in my pediatrician’s office on the paper-covered table. The paper is crinkled and uncomfortable. My mother’s head is cupped in her hands as the pediatrician leaves the room.

Cracked pavement tells the story that time refuses to forget. 

And while tree roots weave their way underneath the ashen pavement, 

Time is dripping away from me.