You held my wrists.
Your thumb ran up and down,
fingertips gliding
over each bump.
Each line of raised skin,
Full of memories and emotions
trapped, trying to bulge out through the surface.
You painted flowers on my arm.
Stemming from the pain.
You traced each scar carefully
and tried not to stain my bracelet.
That damned bracelet.
That matched yours.
With each brush stroke
you touched wounds
that went far deeper than you see.
And I let you,
plant those seeds of hope in me.
The water must have been poisoned.
The flowers withered
and the acrylic flaked away.
You never liked roses.
(You said they look sad when they die.)
Mine had turned to weeds.
Yellow, sunburnt and dry
without your green touch
I can feel the toxins building up.
I cut the weeds, at their keloid root
to let out the infection and pain.
I made sure to take my bracelet off
So it wouldn't be stained.
Red.
YOU ARE READING
HEAVY
PoetryIn this collection of poetry, Fee writes about their experience with mental illness, gender identity, relationships and finding themself as a seventeen year old.
