She was like a snakebite,
Boiling, festering inside.
She, she was lethal.
She and I, we were both nine.
Like the number of the cat's lives,
We killed each other.
She grabbed my mind and
filled it with unmeasurable,
things, ineffable.
I took a knife and tore her
apart, and she,
she stitched it back up again.
Our jagged pieces, they fitted
like keys in vault doors;
We kept each other's secrets.
Five years hence, we are
fourteen, tears and problems,
long calls and silent conversations.
We, we're sisters, silent and grey.
All the poison we fill inside,
We're the ones that take it away.
Pain, found at the other end
of the world; we're experts at
mooring it on our shores.
I, I'm combustible, all
flames and smoke, and she,
She's storms, violent shrieking nights.
She fills my gaps, and I
try, but it's not enough, my light doesn't
reach her heart, buried in the basement.
She's a snakebite, and I, I'm
just fangs, that try to sink, but I can't.
She kills me when she leaves, the horrible,
Horrible snakebite.
////////
Dedicated to my best friend Nashita.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoesíaHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
