When towering men thunder past her, it's the gentle press of the swastika band that brushes against the top of her head, unexpectedly soft for something that causes so much destruction.
When erratic breaths crawl into her throat, it's the taste of the crisp, dry air that stains her lips.
When gunshots echo off the cobblestone, it's the smell of gunpowder, a scent that she had become familiar with.
When nameless faces are ravaged beyond recognition, it's the ringing screams that never seem to leave her ears.
When she steals a glance at her boots, it's the splatters of her neighbors that dance across her toes.
When her eyes catch at familiar double doors, it's her sleeve as it pushes at the icy handles.
When she runs up the stairs as she had a thousand times before, it's her heartbeat thrumming in her ears, drowning out every other sound.
When small, fragile hands slap the ground, it's the sting of her palms as they pull her under.
When she slides herself beneath the tattered bed frame, it's the heavy smell of sawdust and panic.
When her teeth pierce her tongue to keep herself from whimpering, it's the taste of salt and copper that pools in her cheeks.
When lithe arms swing between you, it's the gentle press of the sweater that brushes against your shoulder, unexpectedly soft for something that was so worn out.
When snark remarks crawl past your throat, it's the taste of the low, warm chuckles that stain your lips.
When car honks echo off the pavement, it's the smell of gas, a scent that you had become familiar with.
When nameless faces bustle across the intersection, it's the ringing chirps of the pedestrian crossing lights that never seem to leave your ears.
When you steal a glance at your sneakers, it's the warm sunlight that dances across your toes.
When your eyes catch at familiar glass doors, it's the "we're open!" sign as you push at the cool handles.
When you slip through the entrance as you had a thousand times before, it's the bell that chimes for a moment, drowning out the chatter inside.
When your hand reaches for your wallet, it's the sting of your wrist as she slaps it away.
When you slide yourself into the tattered dining booth, it's the heavy smell of caramel and safety.
When your teeth pierce your tongue to keep yourself from laughing, it's the taste of coffee and creamer that pools in your cheeks.
YOU ARE READING
Open To Interpretation
PoetryThis is a collection of some of my old poems, short stories, and other writing that I created a few years ago, while I was going through a really rough patch in my life. I wanted to publish it back then, but this is the best that I can do for now. E...
