in my solitary, i break myself down,
smash my glass visage into bits and pieces indistinguishable to the eye.
a mass of iodine, silicon, nitrogen, whatever does it matter?
because then, i am homogenous and down to my bare components;
then, i am whole.
(it should've ended at nigredo)
in the quiet, i wash it all all away.
shards too big, too colorless, too strange, too toxic, too aware
go into the bucket as a collected mess of my impurities.
because then, i'll no longer loathe too look at those reflections;
then, i am dead.
(but i was born in albedo)
in the dark, i will ferment.
shining through the blinds, this old one reaches for it—the sun.
this crippled age is necessary and ruinous, i yellow, absorb, grow.
because then, i will watch my inbetweens rot and be forgotten.
then, i am wicked.
(and still live through citrinitas)
in these hands, i will be molded.
like pottery, like stone, like wood or bones, like the human brains.
i melt and am cast into this placeholder for children.
because then, i will see myself refined at last.
then, i am borne a tear.
(whilst dreading rubedo.)
YOU ARE READING
to be released with clipped wings
Poesiaa poetry book chock full of my teenage angst, because i am self aware of it but unwilling to quit. like, hell, if i am to be growing up in an age of anonymity and the internet, then lets fuck around and take advantage of it to vent to people i *don'...
