I separate my realities—one by one.
The arched edge; the soft glide; that kiss on my neck—
There I sit amongst them.
Did any of us understand in those delicate glass childhoods awaiting to be shattered, that this life would become one pile after another to be sorted; for the agonizings to be soothed late into the night; that we would need to be, our own soft words of consolation?
YOU ARE READING
Ice on My Lashes
PoetryCan I give you words-the kind that sting & kiss, both at once. As does this storm, fiercely blowing at the leaves within your belly, green and supple to the tongue. Can I give you, what was torn, from my slaughtered gut? -The Cold Prose of Winter...
