Portmantle

I was a child of the winter

Cut lips dripping fresh blood on snow

Cold blue and spotted bruises

Mangled skin on my stomach that no one will ever know

//

A fragile monarch trapped in a northern November

As the vibrant oranges of autumn fade into weathered grey

Fragile wings and skinny bodies crumble

Left alone as scaly clouds dissipate

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Bleak and dreary, calculated dissociation

The disappointment of March gloom

Fade away just to escape

The sorrow of the flowers that didn’t bloom

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I wonder what life would be without

An early air sign’s loose grip on reality and time

The panicked sedated movement of limbs in bad dreams

Watching clocks tick and calendar days fly by

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Brittle knees on rigid ground

Begging and aching for sweet company

Bloodthirsty wolves disguised as loyal dogs

Claiming they’re the kindest to ever be

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The cruelty of adolescence and the lies of nostalgia

Homesick for better yesterdays that were never real

The heaviness of knuckles and the villainy of condescension

Everything awful is better than having nothing to feel

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