a poem i wrote in HS:
Rose-colored lilies bloom when the sun has set.
I wonder if the green in your eyes is benign, or malevolent?
So many times she told me to lock my heart and save my dreams.
I tried hard to wall them well, but the frail bars crumbled like marigolds at the first touch.
In my open shoulder I lay bare.
To cover the bloody mass with my broken skin,
I had first to break the broken capillaries and spread them thin, to look like a capillary.
The lights were lit in the hallway, but I had left the needles in your room.
I had only your teal thread then, with the gold stitching.
Under the light of shadows I wove the turquoise patchwork in, until I was gilded in artifice.
I wonder if his eyes shone teal in reflection of my open veins?
Or did the blood run blue only after he drew away my breath?
Hungry lungs, they choked the air in my wake while I gasped on iron ore.
To breathe through gaping holes, grasping at broken bones.
Who else, to piece together the shattered fragments?
A human harvest with not a person left at the finish.
The marrow ran free, I tried to draw it from the ground.
It only soaked through the cracks in my hollowed bones,
As though shamed by impurities collected while exposed.
I suppose I had been writing about walls.
Am I an architect? I failed in the construct.
Chronic, I drew a maze in the debris.
The coffins require no key and I’ve made no lock.
But I thought not much of the building of walls, nor labored in their placement.
Hasty is the patchwork, pieced together, of ruptured parts:
If there is a path, I’ve not found it.
I suppose this is what I meant, when I lay the liver down to contain the blood, thinking only to close.
The heart, unlocked, is there, enclosed.
I never found one to map the maze.
Me I am not wont to feel the soul.
And yet, I feint a beating in the dark.
I fear that it should frenzy at the touch.
To tear upon the skin, and lay it bare?
Open, can I survive the breaking now, of all the broken parts?