Feel the space where there were once wings:
run your hands up the spine to graze the bruises from stones.
Feel the space where there should be wings:
run your hands up your spine to remember the unknowns.
These are the blessed bones:
with a glimpse of cracking from a piercing arrow.
These are my unsanctified bones:
with a glimpse of kindness within the gentle marrow.
Tangled in the ribs is a golden sparrow:
from the same lined paths that Heaven mandated.
Tangled in my ribs is a broken sparrow:
from the same packed dirt humanity awaited.
Touch this skin that you created:
burnt with runes and carvings.
Touch this skin that I created:
burnt with songs and markings.
YOU ARE READING
Not Quite A Woman
PoesiaHalf diary, half something else. The feeling of being caught between two different worlds, and of hating men but wanting their attention. Hi. Pantoums, sestinas, a few freeform poems, and whatever else seems fun. New parts get shoved wherever seems...
