There is only a short distance before it is all black;
someone has taken a marker and scribbled through
the axis of my body;
I tell myself that it doesn’t matter that it is you
squashing my breath until it is a foreign language.
But of course it does and it’s all in the wrong order,
cropped to the wrong size,
my makeup a vertical bruise hanging across me.
My smile a blue thistle wreathed,
I think if it wasn’t Christmas you would drop me.
I spend my morning mapping my thoughts-
I hope when this letter reaches you,
you do not notice my words falling like breath.
I hesitate about whether I should tell you,
all of the things I’ve wanted to say but think better of.
Comments
fatboy74 | October 30, 2011 - 10:35
not perfect and you must be careful with re-using certain metaphors but the voice in this is something else - you are getting better week by week and it is very exciting to be able to see your talent growing all the time. :-)
Beeme | October 30, 2011 - 10:37
Thanks Fatboy I've been stuck recently with thinking of new imagery, I had to revert back to using a poem I had already started. Glad you liked the tone though:-)
Beeme xx
the unfolding head | October 30, 2011 - 15:57
I enjoyed reading this Beeme.
Beeme | October 30, 2011 - 17:40
Thanks unfolding head :)Really happy you enjoyed.
Beeme xx
MistakenMagic | November 4, 2011 - 16:12
"I tell myself that it doesn’t matter that it is you
squashing my breath until it is a foreign language." - love it! A wonderfully compact poem, Beeme. Well done on the cherry!
Magic xxx
Beeme | November 6, 2011 - 19:03
Thank you Magic, I'm very happy you enjoyed this.
Beeme XxX