Part 1:
Which one of us is on the stranger's side of the door?
Am I a house? Disguised as a cage?
Are you the curtains pulled shut?
Is my job to tend to the dying hearth?
Your aching pulse does not grow native inside my chest cavity,
in my matted, scattered, roots,
my home.
Your bedridden heart cowers in dark corners,
sinking deep into the walls of my own,
until it finds itself hungry.
It crawls, disturbs, consumes,
like a lost child, an orphan.
It's looking for a doorway,
an unlatched window,
revealing a creak of sunlight,
just a sliver of dawn.
But I boarded up the house,
vowed to keep us both locked away from anything
that's born innocent and grows free.
Dusk falls rapidly,
twilight being pushed and shoved,
pushed and shoved inside of me,
till my lips shouted red,
rubbed raw to the white of bone.
My voice broke trying to find
the friction between two red petals.
As daybreak stretches his hand west to east,
your knuckles kiss the front door,
knocking knocking,
pushing and shoving,
all of it echoing the same,
long after the doorways clear.
Ghosts crowd passages and garner my attention,
pulling my imprecise words from stems
and planting them as a warm invitation inside.
Something to walk through: an echo, a memory, a ghost,
a dark corridor, an opening, a possibility,
evolves into a dance through a brick wall.
(Continued in next post...)
Model:
@mistykrisi
Written By:
@mistykrisi
PA:
@_ylsc_
#Healing #Survivor #Poetry #Freedom #IGPoetry
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