She wore night like it wasn't poison,
as if a dream had never peeled her skin off
or done something worse than kill her,
as if she had never been betrayed by a pretty face,
or a comforting voice in a sunlit wood.
I don't understand how anyone
can sleep through the night
and not wake up with their eyeballs missing
or a little slump to their shoulders.
I'm sobbing in her arms.
She is not understanding.
She loved night like it was a sunrise,
as if the opportunity was the same
whether it was the sun who gave it
or the moon,
as if the stars were windows,
but the blackness
was not a blind.
YOU ARE READING
Bent Roses
PoetryBent Roses is a poetry collection about familial devotion, love, and misery. It is about those nights when everyone gets home late and the first thing they say to each other is good morning. It is about believing in another person when you shouldn't...
