I didn't sleep that night. I couldn't.
The thoughts raced inside me as I felt
my fingertips gently caress my braids.
I didn't know what had suddenly gotten
over me to freeze up when he touched
my hair.
I repeated one particular line in my head
over and over until the sun woke up and
stood in its place above the clouds again.
This is me. This is me. This is me.
A rigid, stubborn, outspoken girl
who blends in with the walls of
the house she was dropped off at.
This is me. This is me. This is me.
A girl who grinds the chair against
the wooden floor when grandmother
shoots venom from her eyes to my
soul.
This is me. This is me. This is me.
An unconventional paradox waiting
to be solved by someone who can grasp
stars from the sky and tangle them up till
they form constellations.
This is me. This is me. This is me.
An unconventional paradox that knows
one doesn't need someone to grasp stars
for them when they can stand on a ladder
and do it themselves.
This is me. This is me. This is me.
YOU ARE READING
shades of red
Poetrywhen you have too many thorns, all you can do is paint them in red, because, maybe then, they will look like petals [sequel to shades of blue]
